Second Chances
by rahleeyah
Summary: Fate gives Nick and Jen a second chance the night they're reunited in Matt's kitchen, but starting over will prove more complicated than either of them ever imagined.
1. Chapter 1

It was a relief, really, being back with the boys - and Allie and Emma - again. A relief to listen to Si's complaining and Dunny's teasing and Matt's earnest enthusiasm, to catch Allie's eye across the table and share a good-natured grin at the boys' antics, to be back _home, _where she belonged, with the people who knew her best. Counterterrosim had been an adventure, a challenge, a struggle, but it had been too similar to the days she'd spent with SIS, the work and the people and the secretive nature of the job a constant, glaring reminder of the year she'd spent undercover, the year Jennifer Mapplethorpe had been completely consumed by another woman's life. It wasn't what she wanted, any more, to lose herself in a legend, to spend more time away from her home than in it. There was a selfishness to that sort of work Jen couldn't afford, any more.

It had been a relief to get the call from Matt, inviting her to come round for margaritas, to meet the newest member of their squad. His name was Nick, apparently, and Matty remembered him from the old days before Jen moved upstairs to Homicide, and all in all it seemed that everyone was happy with him, this Nick. If her team liked him Jen figured she would as well, and she was looking forward to meeting him. But first this, sitting around the table, laughing at the thought of Simon diving headfirst into a wheelie bin. Digging through the rubbish was good for him, Jen thought; his head got a little too big for his shoulders sometimes, and the reminder that he was no better than anyone else might humble him. At least for one evening.

Emma had been all alone in the kitchen for a while now, and none of the boys seemed to notice - and if Allie noticed she appeared to be far too comfortable sprawled in her chair to do anything about it - so Jen slid to her feet and went to help. She liked Emma, really; there had been a time when Jen had felt the sting of jealousy every time she looked at Emma, but those days had passed. That jealousy had risen from Jen's own loneliness more than any sort of possessive feeling towards Matt; it just didn't seem fair, somehow, that he should find someone, should be so happy, while she went home to an empty bed every night. She liked him well enough, and if things had been different she might have accepted his dinner invitation, might have been the one moving in with him, sharing her life with him, but Jen had more important things to worry about, and as the years passed she found herself grateful that she hadn't given in to her momentary infatuation with him. He was a mate, now, a friend she could rely on, and she was certain that if she'd been foolish enough to fall into bed with him things wouldn't have worked out well for her. She had her career, still, a career that was even brighter now after her secondment, a career that promised big things for her future, and Matt Ryan wasn't worth the sacrifice of that dream. Emma was nice, and pretty, and she kept Matt in line, and Jen wished them both the best.

"How's it going?" she asked as she made her way into the kitchen.

"Nearly there," was Emma's answer; she was all bright smiles and busy hands, as ever, the margaritas all laid out in matching glasses on the worktop in front of her. "Could you pass us the limes?"

Dimly the sound of a new guest arriving echoed down the hall; Jean could hear the lads talking, a new, deeper voice joining the din though she could not make out his words. It didn't matter, she supposed; she'd meet him soon enough. She turned, found the little bowl of limes waiting for her, and spun back around to face Emma.

She very nearly dropped the bowl right then and there, a thousand questions racing through her mind while her heart began to race and her vision went black around the edges.

He was just standing there, tall and painfully handsome, a case of beer on his shoulder and a wide, brilliant smile on his face, looking almost exactly the same despite the four years that had passed since she'd last seen him. In her mind he was still _Wesley; _they'd never told each other their real names - had in fact been expressly told _not _to, and Jen had always been quite good at following orders. She'd never known where he was from, what sort of work he did when he wasn't working with SIS, when he wasn't sleeping next to her. She knew nothing about his family, or where he'd gone to school, or anything like that, but she knew how he took his tea, knew the strength of his arms, knew the conviction of his spirit, knew he was, without a doubt, the single best man she'd ever met. A man who, until tonight, she'd been certain she'd never see again.

"Hi," she said, somewhat lamely.

* * *

"Hi," he answered.

He was staring at her, he knew. Had been staring too long, if the expression on Emma's face was anything to go by, but honestly he couldn't believe his luck, couldn't believe that after four years he had somehow, miraculously, stumbled across her in this most unlikely place. _Trish, _his Trish, beautiful and brilliant and strong, tenacious and funny and kind, his favorite memory and his biggest mistake all wrapped up in the most incredibly attractive package. He didn't understand it, really, what she was doing here, had no idea what he was supposed to say to her, what she wanted him to say, what she expected of him in this moment. She looked as surprised as he felt, though, and he took some comfort from that thought, from knowing that they were both lost, confused, elated, that neither of them held the upper hand in this moment.

"Jen, have you met Nick?" Emma asked, and then it all clicked into place. She wasn't _Trish, _then, she was _Jen, _the mysterious Jen he'd been waiting months to meet. The way Matt and the rest of the boys talked about her made it clear that she was a valued member of their team, that they were all delighted to have her back, and this evening had been engineered specifically so that Nick could meet her before she returned to the office on Monday. He'd been looking forward to it, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that he would find _her_, this woman he'd been looking for since the day they parted, this woman he worried he'd never find again.

At Emma's question he raised his eyebrow, and Trish - _Jen - _caught on at once, understanding his unspoken question. _How do you want to play this, _he asked her, and she answered promptly, giving a little shake of her head as she said, "no."

_So that's how it's going to be, then, _he thought. They would pretend they'd never met, that they hadn't lived together as husband and wife for a year, that he had never traced the curve of her spine with trembling hands, that she had never pressed her lips against his neck and cradled him between her thighs. They would pretend that none of it was real, would start over fresh, right here, right now. He wished he didn't hate the idea of that new beginning so much, but they both had careers to worry about, had both sworn to take their secret to the grave, and he knew that she was right. He would remain professional, and circumspect. No matter how much it hurt.

"I'm Jennifer Mapplethorpe," she said, and he took her hand, gave it a little shake while he drank in the sight of her. She looked good, fresh-faced and lean and happy, happier than he'd ever seen her before, perhaps, he realized, because he'd never seen her in her element like this before. He rather thought the name suited her, certainly better than _Trish Claybourne _ever had. He had known _Trish_, but _Jen _was an unknown entity, a stranger to him no matter how his heart might protest.

"Nick Buchanan," he answered, and she gave a little nod, and he couldn't help but wonder if her thoughts were running along the same lines, if she were even now rearranging her own memories to make room for this new person. No more _Wesley_, now; the next time she called his name she'd call him _Nick, _and he tried not to think about how much he liked the thought of his real name falling from her lips.

She jumped at the chance to leave him, grabbing the drinks and following Emma back to the dining room, and he just watched her go, awe-struck and hopeful. They'd worked together so well, in the past, had managed to bury their feelings for one another for most of a year, and even after they'd given in to that desperate longing still they had managed, had protected one another, looked out for one another, every day. _We can do this, _he told himself as he slowly made his way back to the dining room, leaned in the doorway and watched her doling out drinks and laughing with her mates. Yes, they could do this, could tell their lies and dance around one another, could work together every day and no one would ever know. No one would ever know how he adored her, cared for her, treasured her, _loved _her. No one but him, and maybe, just maybe, her.

* * *

_Christ, this is strange, _Jen thought, trying not to stare at Nick across the table. She had done her best, over the course of the evening, not to look at him too often, not to ask him too many questions, not to pay him too much attention, even though every fiber of her being was begging to reach out to him, to catch hold of his broad, strong hand, to drag him into her arms, to demand an accounting from him. _Did he know? _She asked herself for perhaps the hundredth time, wondering if he had known before today that they were on a collision course, bound for one another. She didn't think so, really, for he had seemed genuinely surprised to see her, so surprised that his composure slipped and he had stared at her, hungry and eager and knowing, for far longer than was wise while Emma stood with them in the kitchen. No one else seemed to have noticed the way electricity sparked and crackled between the pair of them, but Emma had witnessed their meeting, and her gaze was curious as her eyes danced back and forth between Nick and Jen. Jen could only cross her fingers and hope that Emma would keep her suspicions to herself; the last thing Jen needed was to face such inquiries now, when she and Nick had not yet had a chance to come up with a plausible cover story between them. They needed _time. _

And, Jen supposed, they had it abundance, for perhaps the very first time. There was no need to rush; when she walked into the office on Monday he would be there, waiting for her, and they would have to find a way to work together, every day. The work wasn't what worried her, really; even after all this time she rather felt as if she could read his mind with a single glance, and she knew deep down that her face would likewise be an open book to him. Only to him, the only man who had ever truly understood her, her motivations, her desires, her dreams. Over the course of their year together she had whispered countless secrets into his willing ear, and he had kept them all, every one, had never used his knowledge of her against her. They had been partners, in every way, and every day of the last four years Jen had been missing him.

Now he was here, but his proximity was unbearable in a way for she could not talk to him, properly, openly, had to weigh her every word and deed and glance, had to temper her own wild heart, and the strain of it was beginning to prove exhausting. It wasn't so very late, but there were matters for her to attend to at home, and she knew she could not risk another drink lest her tongue grow loose and ruin the tentative accord she and Nick had struck in the kitchen.

"Right," she said, rising to her feet and reaching for her bag. "That's me off."

"Gotta get home to Charlie?" Matt asked with a good-natured grin.

Jen could have kicked him; Nick was looking at her curiously, but she could not meet his gaze, not now, not yet. Just the sound of the name would give rise to a million questions, she knew, but she did not have it in her to answer them just now.

"Yeah," she said. "Have a good night, you lot. Don't let Si drink too much."

They all roused themselves, passed her around for hugs and cheek-kisses and well wishes, and she embraced them willingly, these people who had become her family, after a fashion. When she reached Nick he just smiled, that smile that made her go weak in the knees, and shook her hand again. If his gaze lingered a moment too long, if he held her hand just longer than was proper, no one seemed to notice. No one but Jen, who felt her heart hammering in her chest, felt the heat rising in her cheeks, the sudden desire to kiss him returning once more.

_Get a hold of yourself, Mapplethorpe._

"See you on Monday," she said, pulling her hand back.

"See you on Monday," he answered, a world of meaning in his tone, and Jen just turned tail and bolted, worried that if she stayed there a moment longer all her plans would be laid to ruin. She needed to talk to him, but first she needed time to gather herself, gather her thoughts, formulate a plan. She need _time, _and she could not face him until she'd gotten her thoughts in order.

* * *

"Oh, Christ, she's left her mobile," Matt said just as the door closed behind her, and Nick snatched it up at once. It had to be a sign, he told himself, had to have been intentional, her way of calling out to him, asking him to follow her outside, and he leapt at the chance.

"I'll see if I can catch her," he said, and then he was out the door, hoping that no one noticed how eager he was to chase after her, how badly he wanted to see her again. He could only hope that it didn't seem strange, the speed with which he volunteered for this task, could only hope there would be no questions when he made it back inside. Not that it mattered, really; she had given him a chance to speak to her alone, and he would not squander it.

As he strode purposefully across the grass he found that she was only just getting into her car, and so he called out her name, watched as she turned to him, surprise written all over her face.

"Forgetting something?" he asked, brandishing her mobile as he closed the space between them. His grin slipped slowly away as he watched her frown; perhaps she hadn't done it on purpose, then. Perhaps it was no more than an accident, and she hadn't wanted to speak to him in private, and he'd just gone and stepped right in it. It didn't matter, really, he supposed; he was here now, and she was walking round the car to stand in front of him, and she was so lovely that his heart ached at the very sight of her.

"Thanks," she said, taking the mobile and sliding it into her trouser pocket at once. She ducked her head, and he had to stuff his own hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out to her, catching hold of her chin and lifting her face so he could stare into her shining eyes once again. Standing like this, so close, too close for new acquaintances, silence thick and heavy between them, was a familiar sort of agony for him. He couldn't help but remember how easily she had fit within the circle of his arms, the gentle sound of her laughter, the softness of her lips, couldn't help but remember how _good _they had been together, how well they worked together, in bed and on the job.

"You look good," he said before he could think better of it.

She looked up at him sharply, but if she meant to admonish him it would seem she changed her mind, for she only smiled ruefully at him.

"Yeah," she said softly. "You do, too."

_Christ, _but he wanted to kiss her. He took a step towards her all unthinking, but she drew in a sharp breath at his proximity and Matt's words floated back to him. _Gotta get home to Charlie?_

"Charlie?" he asked, his voice low and warm. She swayed towards him, just a little, as if she didn't even realize she was doing it.

"My cat," she answered, and he grinned, not even trying to hide the way his heart leapt in his chest. Just a cat, not a man. No ring on her finger, no husband waiting for her at home; he knew he had no cause to hope, knew that now they were working together there was no chance for them to rekindle their romance after hours, but still, just knowing that she wasn't spoken for - _yet - _was a wonderful thing. Circumstances could change, and Nick Buchanan was a patient man. He'd spent the last four years waiting for her; he could wait a little while longer.

"Have a good night, Jen," he murmured, ducking his head towards her, close enough to touch her and yet holding himself back, giving her the choice. She could lift her chin and let their lips brush together or she could turn away, and he would, as always, leave that decision in her hands. Nick knew what he wanted; her own desires were somewhat less clear to him, at present.

"Good night, Nick," she breathed, and then she was walking away, and he just watched her go, grinning. His life was about to get very complicated, but he couldn't have been more delighted at the prospect.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt was waiting for him just inside the front door, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his gaze slightly unfocused, everything about his demeanor radiating an awkward sort of determination that Nick liked not one little bit.

"Jen get off all right?" Matt asked him.

It was highly unlikely, Nick knew, that Matt was loitering in the foyer of his own home, far away from his guests and his girlfriend and his drink, just to make sure that Jen had safely traversed the roughly six meters from his front door to her car. Something else was afoot just now, some other sort of discussion in the offing, and Nick found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he'd just slipped into the passenger seat of Jen's car and ridden off with her instead of making his way back inside. She wouldn't have let him, he knew, but still, he wished.

"Yeah, mate, no worries," Nick said, trying to brush past him, to avoid this confrontation and get back to his beer, but Matt stood his ground, and stood in the way.

"Listen, Nick, I know you don't need reminding but…"

_There it is, _he thought. It became rather suddenly clear, Matt's intention in waylaying him like this; the evidence was there to see, in the shine of his eyes, the set of his mouth.

"You don't screw the crew," Matt said.

Nick forced out a laugh, hoping it sounded natural, hoping Matt couldn't tell how badly Nick wanted to grab him by the neck and throw him against the wall for even insinuating such a thing about Jen. Yes, she was attractive, and yes, Nick had probably paid her a little too much attention tonight, and _yes_, he still wanted her, but he wasn't stupid enough to risk both their careers the same night she waltzed back into his life for the first time in four years. And even if he were stupid enough, foolhardy enough, drunk and in love enough to chase after her, he knew Jen would have nothing to do with him. She was a consummate professional, dedicated to her job; that much he knew about her, had learned during the year they spent working together, living together. They had stumbled into bed together in the past, but under wildly different circumstances, and even without discussing it Nick knew that she would value her position on Homicide too highly to risk losing it for the sake of a shag. Even a really good, satisfying, earth-shaking shag with an old flame. Matt had worked with her for years, knew nothing of her history with Nick, and the very idea that he suspected something was already afoot between them was deeply offensive to Nick. Then again, he told himself, perhaps Matt was just protecting her, stepping in to defend a valued member of his team before she found herself in a difficult position.

"Don't you trust me, Matty?" Nick asked, a lopsided little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't manage a full smile, right now, not when he was buzzing from one too many beers and the smell of Jen's perfume lingering on the edges of his consciousness. The whole night felt like nothing so much as a dream, as if in the morning he would wake to find her gone, vanished once more into the ether, a wisp of smoke he could not catch no matter how he longed to.

"I'm just saying, I know she's…" his voice trailed off and his shoulders slumped, as if he couldn't quite voice the words, and Nick found himself wondering whether it was just a protective instinct that compelled Matt to speak, or if jealousy played a hand.

"She's what, Matty?"

"She's...she's very beautiful," he finished, somewhat lamely. "But she's a mate, you know? You can't shag a mate."

Nick couldn't help but wonder how often Matt had repeated those same words to himself, trying to convince his yearning heart that a tryst with Jen could never be. Then again, he supposed, perhaps he wasn't being fair on Matt; Emma was beautiful, too, and they seemed happy together.

"I know," he said, clapping Matt on the shoulder. "Come on, let's have another beer."

And so they did, and left their conversation where it was, neither of them willing to discuss it a moment longer.

* * *

"I'm home!" Jen called as she shuffled in through the door, kicked off her shoes and hung her bag on its accustomed hook, taking a deep breath and trying to forget all about Nick, and all the troubles he had so unknowingly heaped at her feet.

"In here!" came the answer, floating out from the sitting room, and Jen followed the sound of her sister's voice, weary and troubled and deeply grateful to be home - and far away from the prying eyes of her team - for the evening.

"You're home early," Amy said as Jen flopped onto the couch beside her.

Without a thought Jen reached over and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl perched precariously on her sister's lap. Amy was watching some sort of nature documentary, the camera following a pod of frolicking dolphins in a sapphire sea, and Jen's eyes gravitated there at once, eager for a distraction.

"I'm tired," she said with a shrug. "Just wanted to come home."

Before Amy could pester her further there came a great clatter from the corridor, and then Charlie was rushing into view, little feet bare on the floor as he came barrelling towards her.

"Mummy!" he cried, flinging himself into her waiting arms, and Jen just laughed, gathered her son into her lap and held him close, her cheek pressed against his soft, dark hair.

"Hello, my love," she said, kissing his forehead as he wriggled around in her lap, trying to get comfortable. He was already wearing his pajamas, and Jen found herself grateful once more for her timely departure; she hated to miss bedtime if she didn't have to. "Did you have fun today?"

"We found dinosaur bones! In the garden!"

At just over three years old, Charlie was a curious, thoughtful sort of child. The two things in life that excited him most were dinosaurs and trains, and when the subject turned to either - or preferably both - of his favorite subjects his eyes would light up and he would chatter relentlessly about them, stumbling over scientific names just a little too big for him to pronounce, though he remained determined to try. Jen couldn't quite make sense of his announcement, and turned to her sister for an explanation.

Amy smiled. "We did, didn't we, bug? Right out there under the grass." Jen winced, just a little, as she realized that whatever Charlie had found had first been buried by his doting aunt. Jen had always been quite proud of her little house, her well-kept little garden, and though she knew that Charlie would have loved the adventure of finding fossils in his own back garden, she lamented, just a little, for her grass.

"Show me," Jen said, for much as she wanted to scold her sister for engaging in such destructive pursuits she would never dream of discouraging her son from his love of learning. Charlie was on his feet in a flash, racing off to his bedroom to retrieve his treasure, and Jen sunk back against the couch once more. For the first time all night her thoughts were focused on something other than Nick, but the respite was not meant to last, for Amy fixed her with a curious stare at once.

"So did you meet him? The new bloke? What's he like?"

Jen just stared at her, utterly at loss for words. _What's he like? _She thought faintly. He was handsome and kind and brave and strong, funny and gentle, the best shag she'd ever had, the one man she was never supposed to see again, and, perhaps most alarmingly, the father of her child, though he didn't yet know it.

"That good, eh?" Amy said with a cheeky grin when Jen remained silent and ashen-faced. "Is he just gorgeous?"

Amy was three years younger than Jen, as free-spirited and impulsive as Jen was determined and cautious. They had struck a bargain, when Jen fell pregnant; Amy could live with her rent-free in exchange for childcare services, working from home as a teacher for an online school while she saved up money for her planned two-year long sojourn in Asia. Amy had the whole thing mapped out, where she would go, what she would do, and she intended to leave as soon as Charlie was old enough for school, which wasn't far off. It worked well for them, sharing the house; there was room enough for all three of them, and it was nice for Jen to come home to another adult at the end of a long day, to have someone to talk to, share her meals with, someone who never wanted to talk about her work. She rather imagined it worked for Amy, too, for Amy loved her little nephew, and the work she did allowed her the freedom to see her friends when she wasn't looking after him.

Just now, though, Jen would have given anything to be alone with her thoughts, to take the time to formulate a plan, to determine what she was going to say to Nick, and when, and how. He deserved to know, she knew he did, but she'd only just seen him for the first time in four years, and she had been starkly reminded that she didn't _know_ him, not truly. She didn't know if he had someone waiting for him at home, though she imagined he probably didn't, given the way he'd followed her out into the night, the hungry look in his eyes. She didn't know how he felt about children; it certainly hadn't come up when they were undercover. No one had been more shocked than Jen when she discovered she was pregnant, her surprise tempered by grief as she realized Wesley - _Nick - _would never have the chance to know his child. She had not known his name, and he was long gone by the time the morning sickness started, with no way for her to find him.

_Well, _she thought morosely, _I've found him now._

"Yeah," she said faintly. "He is. But we have a rule. No relationships with other coppers. You don't screw the crew." She hoped that would be the end of it, but it was a feeble hope, for she knew her sister's reckless spirit.

Amy laughed. "All right, so you can't screw the crew. But maybe you can fool around with the crew, eh? Let the crew buy you a drink?"

Jen just stared at her, aghast, but she was saved the agony of answering by Charlie's timely arrival. He crawled right back into her lap, his hands full of plastic models of dinosaur skeletons - models, Jen saw, that Amy had cleverly taken apart in order to more closely resemble a three-year-old paleontologist's idea of bones. He babbled away happily, telling Jen exactly what sort of dinosaur he thought had left them behind, though he stumbled a bit on the word _Apatosaurus._ Ordinarily the sound of his voice would have brought her a sense of peace, of calm, no matter how trying the day, but on this particular evening it only made her sad.

He looked so like his father, little Charlie, with his dark eyes and his thick fall of dark hair, the square line of his jaw and the shape of his nose. He was, she thought, Nick in perfect miniature, with his soft heart, his fondness for nature, his tendency to speak only on those matters closest to his heart. Nick was not a particularly talkative man, unless the conversation turned toward his favorite footy team. He preferred to listen, and most of the time so did Charlie, soaking in the details of the world around him, turning them over and over in his mind, trying to make sense of it all. Those similarities had never troubled Jen much, before this night; four years was a long time to miss someone, and Charlie reminded her every day why she had been foolish enough, reckless enough, to take such a chance, why Wesley - _Nick, _she corrected herself for the hundredth time - had been worth such a risk. At the time, she had found herself quite in love with him, and she had treasured the echoes of him she saw in their son.

Now, though, things were different. How long could she hope to keep her history with Nick a secret, when his face was so like Charlie's? The boys had all met Charlie, though Jen did her best to keep him away from the station; murder and toddlers made for an uncomfortable combination, and she was not yet ready to explain her work to her son in detail. Still, though, she could not hide his existence. When she returned from secondment four years earlier glowing and nauseous she had dodged the questions as long as she could, but when the powers that be had pressed her for answers she had done the unthinkable, and fabricated a lie. A long term boyfriend, tragically killed in an accident while on holiday in Sydney. That lie had followed her for years, a burden she could not shake, now. It had protected her to a certain extent, for her team had all heard the story and politely refused to press her for details, but now she was less sure of her standing.

Everything was changing, far too quickly for her liking. She was elated, terrified, confused and overwhelmed, all at once. And, she realized, she only had two days to decide what she was going to do about Nick. Monday was fast approaching, and with it a whole host of complications she never could have foreseen.


	3. Chapter 3

"You be good for Auntie Amy, yes?" Jen said, leaning over to press against Charlie's hair. Monday morning had come, and with it a sense of dread she could not shake. The weekend had been a haven, a welcome respite from the worries of her life, her job, two days to spend with her son and her sister, happy and content and blissfully domestic. Now, though, the time had come to face the music, as it were, to square her shoulders and walk into the station and once more confront _him, _this ghost from her past come to haunt her in her waking hours.

"Love you, bug," she added. Charlie mumbled something that sounded vaguely like _love you, mummy, _though it was hard to tell, really, as his words came tumbling out round a mouthful of cereal. He was still half-asleep, hair all a mess, still dressed in his wrinkly pajamas. Amy wasn't faring much better, by the looks of her; she was clutching her coffee mug as if it were a lifeline, wrapped in a floral robe she'd stolen from Jen's laundry hamper. Such were the perils of living with her younger sister; Jen had long since grown accustomed to Amy's somewhat lax understanding of the concept of private property, and chose not to make a fuss about the pilfered robe.

"You be good, too," she said, snatching a piece of toast off Amy's plate quick as lightning, payback, she supposed, for the earlier theft, and in response Amy just grinned up at her ruefully.

"Say hello to the crew for me," she said with an unmistakable emphasis on the word _crew_, but Jen could come up with no witty remark, and so simply retreated with her tail between her legs and the sound of her sister's laughter floating on the air behind her.

She drove into work, the way she did most days, though she was admittedly more distracted today than she could recall having been for quite some time. The precious time she'd be granted home alone with her family had brought with it no clarity as regarded the situation with Nick. He deserved to know the truth about his son, and yet no matter how many times Jen played the scenario over and over in her mind she could not fathom how that conversation might go, how things might stand between them once she made her revelation. She would have to get him alone, first of all, which would be in itself no mean feat. And then she would have to tell him that there was a little boy eating cereal at her kitchen table with Nick's eyes and his jawline and his soft dark hair. She would have to tell him that he had missed the first three years of his son's life. And then she would have to wait for his response.

It was that, more than anything else, which bothered her this morning. Though she had fancied herself in love with him once the stark truth remained that Nick Buchanan was a stranger to her. She did not know how he might react, once he learned he had a child of his own. Would he be cross with her, for saddling him with this burden? Somehow she didn't think so; that didn't seem much like the man she remembered.

_But you hardly know him, _she reminded herself, for the hundred time.

Would he be the sort of man who would immediately demand access to his child, instigate custody proceedings and blow up her career along with her home? Somehow Jen didn't think that seemed like him, either. Even if he did not want to involve the courts - for which Jen would be very thankful - the thought of allowing him, this man she hardly knew, to spend time with her son when Jen was not present was a deeply unsettling one. Then again, the thought of Nick, with his warm eyes and his gentle smile and his broad, strong hands, standing in her kitchen or her sitting room and playing with Charlie while Jen looked on was distressing as well, albeit for very different reasons. She couldn't afford to love him, she couldn't afford to lie to him, she couldn't risk her son's happiness and stability, she had no other choice.

Her morning commute passed far more quickly than she would have liked, and before she knew it Jen was in the elevator, making her way up to Homicide. Nothing had been decided, and her nerves were fraying by the second. She would have to face him, would have to find some way to speak to him, to broach this topic, but she had no grand speech planned, had no idea how to spill this truth out at his feet, and she was, in truth, terrified of the outcome.

There was no respite waiting for her by her desk, however, for Nick it seemed had taken up residence right beside her, and to make matters worse, he was not alone. Dunny and Matt were loitering nearby, and though that bought Jen additional time to think it was hardly a boon for now she would have to greet him as if nothing were amiss, would have to go back to playing a part, lying to the people around her. It was the lies, more than anything else, that Jen could not abide. These people were as good as her family, and yet so much of her life had of necessity remained hidden from them. They trusted one another with their safety, their own survival on an almost daily basis, and yet she had not trusted them with the biggest piece of herself.

"Morning," Nick said as Jen came marching towards her doom, dropping her handbag on her desk before sliding into her chair.

"Morning," she answered softly. She could not look at him, but looking at her desk was no safer for there amongst the neatly organized pens and papers sat a steaming hot cup of tea. She did not need to ask where it had come from; she knew, somehow, intuitively, that it would have been made just the way she liked and placed there moments before by Nick. A peace offering perhaps, an overture of sorts, a gesture of goodwill as they embarked on this new mission together; whyever he had done it, she was certain that he had, and she had no idea how to feel about it.

"Cute cat," Nick remarked calmly, and when she looked up at him sharply she found him gesturing towards the only framed photo on her desk. "Is that Charlie?"

She cast a wary glance over to where Matt and Dunny were talking, and found them mercifully oblivious, paying she and Nick no mind. _Be thankful for small mercies, _she told herself, for as difficult as it was to speak to Nick now it would have been a hundred times harder to explain to the boys why Nick thought her cat shared a name with her son.

"No," she told him softly. "That's Jerry."

Nick smiled, quick and easy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to sit together and sip their tea and talk about her cat, as if they had not faced hell together, as if they had not spent a year sleeping in one another's arms, as if they were not lying to everyone from Jarvis on down the chain of command about themselves, their history, their connection to one another.

"How many cats do you have?" His tone was light, teasing, and under any other circumstances she might have smiled, to see him so at ease with her, so apparently pleased by their reunion, but as it was she could only stare at him blankly. _There's so much he doesn't know, _she thought, but she would have to save such revelations for another time, for Matt approached her then, grinning and completely blind to the drama playing out before him.

"Morning, Jen," he said, smiling his eager, little-boy smile, that smile that usually warmed her heart but today only made her want to scold him for being so thick. "Welcome back."

"It's good to be back," she lied.

* * *

The drama playing out in the boatyard had claimed the rest of the team's attention, and Nick finally, mercifully found a moment alone with Jen. She had been difficult to pin down, over the last twenty-four hours, but now she was sitting at the desk right across from him, pretty as a picture. It was strange, really; he hadn't seen her for four long years, and yet to his mind she looked exactly the same.

Well, he thought, perhaps not _exactly _the same. Trish's hair had been different, more fashion-forward, her clothes garish and more revealing than anything he'd seen Jen in so far, but those particular changes were all for the good, he thought. He liked her hair like this; soft and blonde and without artifice, it was currently caught in a low bun at the nape of her neck. And her suit; he liked that, too, liked the cut of it, liked the color of it, the way it highlighted her tanned skin, her sparkling grey eyes. In point of fact, he liked everything about her.

He even liked this, sitting and talking about the case together, passing photographs back and forth and discussing the disaster on the boat. In many ways it reminded him of the old days, when they had spent their evenings pouring over plates of subpar lo mein and details of Hartono's operation, talking about gun smugglers and drug runners and trying to ignore the heat that crackled between them each time they caught one another's gaze. That heat was absent, at present; Jen was all business today, and he could hardly fault her for that.

She might have been content to discuss nothing but murder, but Nick had finally been granted a moment alone with her and he could not squander it now, not even for the sake of the case. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was standing close by, weighing his options. It was a risk, but he did not know when next he could expect to get her alone, and he could not bring himself to ignore their shared history. She had been warm towards him that night at Matt's house, but she had also been reticent, and he wanted to do whatever he could to set her mind to rest. He caught her eye, and she smiled, a soft, beautiful smile, and turned her attention back to her paperwork.

_That won't do,_ he thought.

"Bet you weren't expecting me to be here when you got back from secondment," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on his own desk for a moment while he waited for her response, all his hopes for the future seeming to hang in the balance.

"Yeah, thanks for the heads up, by the way," she told him in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning close lest anyone passing by overhear. There was no anger in her, not really; if anything, he was reminded of the way they used to gently tease one another while they floated around the house that could have been theirs, nudging one another at the sink while they brushed their teeth and arguing good-naturedly about whose turn it was to do the laundry.

It was always Nick's turn.

"Honestly, Jen, I didn't know," he told her, and she must have seen the truth of his words written on his face for she offered him another smile, wry and understanding; she knew, as well as did he, that they were not master of their own fate, that they had not been from the moment they signed the Official Secrets Act.

"It just would have been nice to have some time to get my head around it before seeing you again."

_Would it? _He wondered. How differently would their reunion have gone, he wondered, if he'd know that she was here, that they would soon be forced to work together every day? Would he have been brave, reached out to her, gone round to her little house, wherever it might be, and stood upon her doorstep and watched her eyes light up with no one but her little cat - or cats? He still wasn't quite sure on that point - to witness their interaction? Or would he have slunk away, and never accepted the transfer at all, and allowed Jen to go on living, oblivious to his proximity but safe from the threat of their past rearing its ugly head? He wasn't quite sure, but he supposed it didn't matter, now. Perhaps _she _would have liked some warning, but he had not been in a position to give it, and all in all she didn't seem so very worried. Either she, like him, was rather looking forward to their getting reacquainted with one another, or she was quite the most accomplished liar he had ever seen. It was difficult to tell which way was up, at present, and the sight of Jen's beautiful face so close to hand was not helping matters.

"You're doing a great job," he told her truthfully. "No one suspects a thing."

His eyes followed a uniformed officer walking by, making sure the lad hadn't heard anything he shouldn't, but then Matt arrived, and it was back to business for all of them. He and Jen shuffled into the briefing room to update the white board with the information Matt had brought them, talking once more of murdered teenagers and blood samples and test results, passing papers back and forth, and Nick tried, really, to focus. He tried to focus on the case, on the questions still unanswered, the avenues of investigation. He tried so hard he was certain that even Jen would not notice how his eyes lingered on her, contemplative and hungry.

What sort of person was she, he asked himself, when she was at home, using her own name, wearing her own clothes? She used to sing in the shower, he remembered suddenly, doing his best to smother his smile. She used to sing quite a lot, actually, and dance when she was tidying up and she thought he wasn't watching. She used to sit on the sofa with her face buried in a book and her feet resting in his lap while he watched the footie. Books and music; she loved them both, but then he supposed so did most people. What then were the differences, between Jen and Trish? Their mode of dress, their occupations, perhaps their very natures, for so far Jen had revealed herself to be a rather serious, work-focused sort; that would explain why, for example, she had only a photo of a cat on her desk. Did Jen sing now, as she so often used to? Would she be content to sit quietly by his side of an evening, warm and together and all the happier for it?

Time would tell, he supposed. And if there was one thing they seemed to have in abundance, it was time. He resolved himself to be patient, and turned his attention once more to the white board.


	4. Chapter 4

"G'day, is this Celine?"

Nick's voice floated from other side of the bullpen and Jen couldn't help but look up, drawn not just to the sound of his voice but to the confidence of his tone. She wasn't the only one who'd noticed; Dunny and Allie were watching him intently as he made his call.

"Yeah, it's Nick. Do you look as sexy in real life as you do online?"

Dunny looked positively gleeful, as he realized what it was Nick was doing. From an operational standpoint it made sense, going straight to the source and calling Andrea Neades directly, though posing as a potential john was hardly the most ethical way to approach the girl. The dubious morality of the phone call wasn't what bothered Jen, though; no, it was the way her stomach dropped when he spoke the word _sexy, _the timbre of his voice, the remembrances of a dozen ill-advised liaisons in the few unmonitored corners of their sprawling safehouse, her body's visceral reaction to hearing him loudly proclaim a word she had only ever before heard him whisper in her ear. What bothered her was the reminder of just how strong, how handsome he was, how much she had wanted him, then. Wanted him still. And gnawing at her gut was the knowledge that she could not have him, now or ever, and especially not while she kept Charlie's existence from him.

She hadn't set out to deceive him. True, she had lied to him that night weeks before when he'd come waltzing back into her life, but she had done so only out of self-preservation, a desperate need to buy herself some time to think. And she had warred with herself every day since then, trying to find the right moment to tell him this heavy secret she carried deep within her heart. The moment had not come, however; one instant they were laughing, carefree and easy while he teased her and smiled that soft smile of his and she could not bear the thought of bursting the private bubble of delighted he'd cultivated around them, and the next they were discussing murder and violence and all the terrible things that came with their profession, all those things she'd tried to distance herself from in her private life. There had been a moment, the week before, a Friday evening when Amy had gone out and Charlie was in bed when Jen had been nursing a glass of wine, staring at her mobile, knowing she could ring him, could speak to him away from the office, could invite him round and finally lay her burdens at her feet, but something, whether it was the wine or her own anxious heart, had stayed her hand, and she had not rung him. They had established a tentative truce, and though Jen knew she must break it, and soon, she had no earthly idea how.

"Fantastic," Nick said. "All right, well then, let's - let's do it. Full service."

Dunny was laughing, but Jen wasn't. Oh, she knew that Nick was not the kind of man to avail himself of the services of a call girl, and that Andrea Neades was too young for his tastes besides, but still she felt a twinge of something that alarmingly resembled jealousy. Not for the call girl, whose plans for the evening were about to be ruined by a pair of detectives wearing matching shit-eating grins, but for every other woman who had ever spent a night in Nick's arms. Jen might have had his son at home, but Nick had no idea, and she had no claim on him. It had been four long years since last she'd fallen asleep beside him, and he was a handsome man, and she knew that during the long years of their separation she could hardly have expected him to live like a monk. Casual flings and one-night-stands were not in his nature but that thought did nothing to lessen her distress; if anything, just imagining Nick falling head over heels for some journo or junior officer or bloody waitress just hurt all the more. He was a free agent, free to shag whoever he wanted whenever he wanted, but Jen could not deny that in her heart, she longed to be the one to share his life. Even now, a bare few weeks after he'd returned, all the old familiar feelings had come rushing back to the surface.

Sometimes she felt as if he could read her mind; he'd catch her eye and grin - or frown, depending on the context - and she would know, in that moment, that he felt just as she did. He teased her lightly about her cats - Christ, she would have to set him straight on that point before he said something to one of the boys - and finished her sentences in briefings. He was funny, and gorgeous, and she could not help but remember how _good _they used to be together, the way she used to sit with her feet propped up on his thigh in the evening, watching him over the top of her book while he chided his footie team for some foolish maneuver, smiling at him in the mirror while she brushed her teeth and he shaved, popping up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his smooth cheek; everything had been so _easy, _before.

Well, she reminded herself, it had not been easy in the beginning. The first three weeks of their life as Trish and Wesley had been torture, dancing around one another, polite and distant and confused. She'd barely slept, barely eaten, spent every moment on edge, certain they were about to be discovered. It was the night before a big party at Hartono's home that everything started to change; she was antsy, trying not to toss about too much, trying not to wake him while her thoughts ran riot, but despite her attempts to keep her fretting to herself he had noticed. One strong arm had reached out, under the duvet, caught her around the waist and pulled her close against the broad plane of his chest.

"Sleep, Trish," he'd murmured, his voice thick and slurred as if he himself were half asleep, and in the moment she was both delighted and terrified to feel the brush of his lips against the back of her neck. "I've got you."

Those three words, simple and to the point - the way everything was with him - had conveyed a world of meaning, and she had understood his every intention in that moment. Nick was determined to protect her, to shield her, to stand beside her, to face each challenge and each danger as her partner, her other half, and he had done so with dignity and strength. His reassurance and his warmth behind her had lulled her into sleep, and though he never mentioned it the next day she found her confidence growing, because he was with her. The party had been a success, had helped solidify their position in Hartono's operation, and laid the foundation of the unshakable trust that carried them through the next twelve months. And she had never forgotten it. Even now that promise seemed to stretch between them, a slender cord binding them one to the other.

_I've got you. _

And he did, she knew. There was no one she wanted by her side more than Nick. But in her heart she feared that once she revealed the truth, she might well lose him forever.

* * *

Andrea Neades had spilled the beans faster than any of them were expecting, and Allie and Matt rushed into the house to make the arrest. Nick and Jen stood just outside the door, waiting in case one of the family members did a runner, but there was no need, in the end. By the time the uniforms came screaming up Allie and Matt were leading a handcuffed Andrea Neades out of the house.

It took a while to sort things out, once they left; Jen took over one team of uniformed officers, escorting Mrs. Neades and her son from the home and into one of the waiting cruisers, sending them back to the station for the second time that day. Nick took the other team, directed them to remove the surveillance equipment that had been placed earlier in the day. He hadn't discussed the division of labor with Jen, but then he hadn't really needed to; they both understood which steps needed to be taken next, and they had simply done the work, the way they always did, in sync.

That was the best thing, he thought, about working with her again, the way everything flowed so easily between them. Things were different now, of course; the tasks they'd shared in the past had been more domestic and professional. _Make them think you're a real couple, let them talk, and listen. _That had been their remit, no more and no less. Housework and parties and a few hours each day spent in a sham office set up by SIS; sometimes Jen had nothing more strenuous to do than go to a salon for a manicure with another influential wife while Nick drank beers with her husband. They'd compare notes at the end of the day, a little tipsy and a little tired and more than a little besotted with one another, and then they'd fall asleep together, his arm around her waist, his nose buried in her hair. Now, though, now it was paperwork and interviews and phone calls and briefings, but the end result was the same. They moved in tandem, always reaching for the same goal, always achieving it, so long as they were together.

There was a part of him that missed that quiet domesticity, though. The SIS operation had run longer than anyone was expecting, and Homicide hadn't been able to hold a post open for him. He'd gone back to Vice for a while, then Arson, then Drugs, bounced around from department to department; gaining experience with different divisions was a requisite for moving higher up the food chain, as his old mentor Bruce Dalton was so fond of telling him, but the truth was Nick didn't have his sights set on Jarvis's chair. He wanted to go home, open a beer, and work on the endless list of renovations he had set up in the dump he'd bought after SIS let him go. He wanted the domesticity he'd tasted so briefly with Trish, wanted a nice girl and a footie match, wanted the rush of the investigation, wanted to do the legwork that came with being a detective rather than the endless politicking of the upper echelons. So far he had succeeded, made his way back to homicide and made progress on the house, but he hadn't found a nice girl yet.

Except, he thought grimly, that he _had_ found a nice girl, she just happened to be the most unavailable woman on the planet. Jen was amazing, really. Clever, funny, gorgeous, kind; she was everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd been looking for over the last four years, with no result. She understood the nature of the work he did and did not fault him for it, knew how to interpret his silence and not take offense to it, knew how to make him laugh, knew how to make him weak in the knees with longing. Her life was like his, he knew, quiet, small, no family waiting for her at home, no one to greet her at the end of a long day except her cat - he had gleaned that much, that she only had the one cat, and he counted it a successful end to that particular operation. It was yet another thing they shared in common, this loneliness, this isolation, self-inflicted or otherwise.

He knew that while they served on the same team Jen would never dare overstep the bounds with him. He _knew _it, but he had not entirely lost hope. She was utterly unattainable at the moment, but circumstances change, all the time. He might not have had his eye on the boss's chair, but Jen did, he knew. That ambition was what drove her to SIS in the first place, no doubt the urge that had her applying for the secondment to counterterrorism that had kept her away when Nick first rejoined the team. She couldn't stay on Homicide forever, but even if she did…

_Stop it, _he told himself reflexively as she came walking over towards him, smiling a sunny smile that left him aching for her. The outfit she'd worn to pose as the tutor made her look so...soft, so approachable, so utterly lovely that he could not help but remember how _right_ she had felt, cradled in his arms. She didn't look like _Detective Mapplethorpe _right now. She looked like Trish, like the woman who'd stolen his heart, and never given it back.

"Ready to go?" he asked her, already pulling the keys out of his pocket. The uniforms were heading back to their car, and Nick's was still parked by the curb, waiting for them. The time had come to go back to the station, back to work, but at least he would have this first, a few minutes alone in the car with Jennifer, soaking in the brilliance of her smile and silently perishing with want of her.

"Yeah, all good," she said, and that was that. In a moment they were in the car, buckled in and moving, and Nick took a moment to enjoy the silence between them. There weren't many women he'd met who could stand his silences, who could accept his quiet, reserved nature without bristling or accusing him of being standoffish. Jen, though, she'd never minded the silence, never felt the need to fill each moment with chatter. The way Nick saw it, words mattered, and he would not spend them unnecessarily, and Jen seemed to approve of that trait. _Christ, _she was perfect.

There was something he wanted to talk to her about, a big, yawning chasm of unanswered questions that separated them from one another, but he knew that to approach their feelings for one another, their history, with anything less than tact would be to throw a grenade into their tentative truce. He would have to approach her carefully, and so he set upon a course he hoped would be the best for both of them.

"I feel bad for the boy," he said slowly, his eyes focused on the road though the rest of his senses were trained on Jen. "Some people don't realize what it means to be a parent, to take responsibility for another life. They don't understand the sacrifice it takes to raise a kid well. And then they go and ruin their children for life."

He was thinking about Andrea Neades, clever and broken, driven to kill by her father's overbearing discipline, by her fears for her brother's future. He was thinking about Liam, who had spent his entire life alone, who had never learned what it was to be a kid, to have friends, to navigate the world. And he was thinking of Allie, too, brittle and hard, the insecurities her mother had instilled in her making themselves known in every brash, arrogant word that passed her lips. And, if he were being entirely honest, he was thinking about Jen, and how thoughtful, how gentle she could be, how she would never do such a thing to a child of her own.

"Yeah," she said faintly, softly, "it's a big responsibility."

"I never really thought about having kids," he said, distracted by the sudden realization that after everything they'd been through together this topic had somehow never come up. "With the job we do, the hours we work, it wouldn't be fair."

With another woman, a potential lover - or perhaps an actual lover - he might have couched his meaning in a different phrase. Might have softened the words, might have added a caveat; _it's not that I don't like kids, _he might have said - for actually, he had always had a way with children, and didn't really mind the thought of having one someday, maybe, when his life was different - _I just couldn't take one on right now. _With Jen, though, he knew such explanations were unnecessary. Whether she would admit it or not at some point in her life she must have been faced with the same choice - family or duty - and she had come to the same conclusion he had. There was a reason everyone on their team was single.

"Yeah," Jen said again, and wasn't that odd, he thought, the note of sadness in her tone, the way she stared resolutely out the window instead of facing him while they talked, "it wouldn't be fair."

For the rest of the trip Jen was silent, and Nick began to brood, worried that he had touched a previously undiscovered nerve. They'd never talked about it before, having kids, starting a family, and there was so bloody much about her and her past that he didn't know. Had he offended her in some way? Or did she want that life, husband and kids and a house with a little fence around the garden, and grieved to think it would never be hers? Nick wasn't sure, and he was so afraid of hurting her that he let the subject drop, and made a silent promise to himself not to bring it up again.


	5. Chapter 5

"See ya, Jen," Dunny said, and just like that he was leaving, leaning over to brush a kiss against her cheek before marching resolutely out of the bar, confident in his mission despite Jen's misgivings.

"See ya," she answered sadly, and then they were, somehow, alone again. Just Jen and Nick, sitting together at a shitty bar after hours, after everyone else had left, the night bright and heavy and oppressive all around them. It wasn't planned; it was never planned. She never sought out time alone with him, didn't try to arrange their caseload or their tasks to put her in Nick's path, but still she found herself in this position with alarming regularity. Wolfie said it was because they worked well together, and Matty said it was because he and Dunny made a good team and no one wanted to work with Allie, and Jen's rational side insisted it was just the way the cases worked out, that she and Nick always seemed to be ready for a new one at the same time. And if they were always the last two left at the table it was only because Matt had gone home to Emma and Duncan had a life to live, she told herself. It had never been her intention, to end up this way, especially after the conversation they'd had following the Andrea Neades case, when Nick had, however innocently, told Jen exactly how he felt about kids. Her heart had been in a riot ever since; he didn't want children, didn't think their job was conducive to a good family life, had chosen, deliberately, to live without those ties. Selfishly, she was enjoying having him around, his easy smiles and his confidence and the gentle way they fit together, and Jen knew he was happy to be back on homicide, and somehow she just couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth, to tell him that she had his son at home; how could she, when he'd already told her that he believed it wouldn't be fair for them to have a child? She couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him now, but with each day that passed her secret weighed just that little bit more on her. Every moment that she waited would only increase his ire when he did find out, and she knew it, but still she kept quiet, troubled and terrified.

She was doubly terrified tonight, but for reasons that had nothing to do with Charlie. They lingered in a grace period at present, the calm before the storm, the deep breath before the dive, for Duncan had arranged to put himself in harm's way the following day, to tempt Colin Rankin and his goons into trying to take him out of the picture. He had, quite deliberately, set himself up to get shot, and after a long day and two beers Jen could no longer fight the suspicion that had been brewing in the back of her mind from the moment she learned of his plans.

And now she was alone with Nick, and her drink was nearly empty, and she couldn't keep her silence any more. The words wouldn't come, the accusation she longed to throw at him, but he was looking at her, now, and she knew she would not be able to hide her feelings. Not from him. He would read her face with a single look, knew her too well for such obfuscation.

He caught her gaze, interpreted it correctly, and returned her accusing stare with a level one of his own.

"What?" he asked softly, too softly for colleagues who'd only been working together a bare three months, two people who had never shared the same life. He looked at her now the way he used to, when things were different, when they were married - or pretending to be - when he had known her inside and out and she had kept no secrets from him.

"You put Duncan up to this didn't you?" she answered, the words coming out more bitter than she intended. _Christ, _she didn't want to fight with him tonight, but she was scared, genuinely scared. She remembered all too well the long, dark days when Dunny had been in hospital, when they'd nearly lost him, the nights she'd spent sitting at his bedside, waiting for him to come round, praying that he'd open his eyes. He'd pulled through then, miraculously, but she couldn't help but worry he wouldn't be so lucky a second time. And this plan had Nick's fingerprints all over it; oh, he was a good detective, a good man, steady, reliable, but Jen knew him in a way the boys didn't, knew the reckless streak that lurked in his past, knew that his dedication to the job sometimes outweighed his regard for safety. She'd seen it firsthand, knew all too well the cost of that kind of determination.

"Up to what?" he prodded her. He knew exactly what she was talking about, she realized, knew exactly where her thoughts had gone, but he wasn't going to let it go. That was something else she'd learned about him, four years before; Nick Buchanan never backed down from a difficult conversation.

"The set up. The wire, the potential shoot-out at the OK Corral," she spat, taking a sip of her drink to hid the shaking of her hands. When she closed her eyes she could see it, a gunshot and a spray of blood and Dunny on the ground, and she shivered despite the oppressive heat of the bar.

"No, but it's a good plan," he countered, and she wanted to shake him, wanted to scream at him, wanted to see his veneer of control slip, wanted him to hold her. When she didn't object he caught her eye and pressed on. "What?" he asked. "You're usually right behind this kind of thing."

At one time, that had been true. They had been as reckless as each other, before, with nothing waiting for them at home, eager to do their job, to prove their mettle. Her thoughts drifted back to a particularly grim week near the end of the Hartono operation, when everything was falling apart and SIS was closing in. Hartono knew something was afoot, and Nick had arranged a plan, had encouraged a fellow SIS plant to follow through on a plan that was eerily similar to Dunny's. _Draw them out, _Nick had told the man. _We need to see their faces. _Well, Jen had seen their faces, and she'd never forgotten them, never forgotten the sight of her friend lifeless in the dirt, the terrible force with which Nick had clasped her to his chest, the way she'd pressed her face hard to the line of his neck to muffle the sound of her sobs.

There had been a time when Jen would have agreed to anything Nick suggested, wholeheartedly and without reservation, but things had changed. Now she had seen the horror of an op gone wrong firsthand. Now she had Charlie at home to worry about, that precious little boy who depended on her for everything. She couldn't afford that kind of risk, not any more, but she couldn't quite bring herself to tell Nick the real reasons for her change of heart.

_Not now, _she told herself. _Not tonight. But soon. God help me, I have to. _

"He offered Duncan ten grand a shipment. There's enough on that wire to pull Rankin in now, tonight. We could've cut a deal with him, a legitimate deal." It was a thin excuse, and she knew it, but it was all she had. If they'd brought Rankin in, he never would have turned on his goons, and she knew it. This was the only way-

"Yeah, but this way we get Rankin and his hitmen, all three."

_Damn him, _she thought.

"And this way we have Duncan out there, alone, with a target on his back." She took another drink, the taste of it sour and faintly nauseating now. Nick was right, and she knew it, but she took no comfort from that certainty.

"We've all been there, Jen. Part of the job." He caught her gaze and she knew, then, that he was remembering the same moment, the same job, the same loss, that his thoughts had traversed the same path as her own.

"And you and I both know how these things can go wrong," she told him.

They didn't acknowledge it much, these days, everything that had gone before. Never talked about the old days over late night drinks, never laughed about Jen's habit of leaving dishes to marinate in the sink for days or the way it drove Nick crazy. Although, she realized as she watched him now, he had _tried, _earlier in the week, to bring the past back to the forefront. He'd brought her tea, made just the way she liked it, and when she thanked him for it he had quietly rattled off her preferences, a subtle, somewhat teasing reminder of just how well he'd known her, before. _Tea, not coffee in the afternoon, or else you don't sleep, _he'd said, and she'd caught his eye and he'd smiled, and she'd known then that he was thinking of the nights she'd spent tossing and turning beside him, before he pulled her close to his chest, before he whispered in her ear, before she drifted off to sleep surrounded by him. Surely, she thought, she should have been the one desperate to relive the glory days, desperate to bring him back into her life, into her bed, and yet it seemed Nick was the one reaching out, crawling out on a limb to offer a hand to her, and she was the one who remained too scared to accept it.

_I need to go home, _she thought morosely. He was too handsome, too kind, too strong, and she was too tired to resist him much longer.

"Can't let that stop us," he told her gently, and she heard in his voice his resolve, his dedication to seeing this thing through. _Part of the job, _he'd said.

_Damn the job, _she thought, rising to her feet and following him out of the bar. It was the job that kept her from telling him the truth, from wrapping her arms around him, from taking him home to meet their son. It was the job that put them in danger, threw them together and pulled them apart when it mattered most. It was the job that had her heart aching in her chest, not Nick. Never Nick, who had always been her protector, her champion, her very heart, who had somehow become all those things to her again.

"Let me drive you home," he said when they reached the pavement, but she just waved him off, too shaken by their conversation and the horror of the morning to even contemplate taking him up on his offer.

"I'll get a cab." Amy's car was in the shop, so Jen had let her use her own. She peered into the street but Nick stepped forward, blocked her view, and then, before she could protest, before she could stop it, he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.

"Let me take you home, Jen," he said, leaning down to let his head hang by her cheek, and she swayed towards him, drawn to him as ever, a moth to a flame. It was late, and she didn't really want to take a cab, and he was here and he was kind and he was holding her hand, and though her conscience urged her to turn him down, her heart won the battle.

"All right," she said at last. "All right."

And so he led her back to his ute, and all the while he held her hand, and she hated herself for the way the warmth of him, the strength him, seeped into her very bones, the comfort she took from his touch. The boys would think she'd gone mad, she knew, if they could see her now. They'd ask a million questions. They'd think it was mental, that she should be so easily led by a man she'd only known such a short while. _They'll never understand, _she thought as Nick opened the door, held it for her while she slid into the passenger seat. No one would ever understand this thing between them, what Nick meant to her, except for Nick himself.

They drove along mostly in silence, which was all for the good, because all Jen could hear was the pounding of her own heart loud as a drum in her ear. She murmured to him softly now and again, told him where to turn, and as they drew ever nearer to her home the tension in her chest wound tighter and tighter until she was breathless with it. This was it, she realized. This was the best chance she would have to tell Nick the truth. She could tell him when he pulled the ute up to the curb, could take his hand and weep and spill out all her secrets and then he could walk into the house beside her, and she could lead him down the hall to the room where Charlie slept, could open the door silent as a shadow and watch the play of emotion on Nick's face when he saw his son for the first time. They could sit at her kitchen table, after, or maybe on the sofa, and she could tell him the story of Charlie's life, could tell him how she loved that little boy, how she loved his father, how they had both changed her life and she didn't regret a moment of it. She could tell him how her heart had soared to see him again, how she _wanted..._she could tell him everything.

If only she could find the courage, the strength to throw caution to the wind, to risk her job, and Nick's affection, and the rapport they'd rebuilt between them. If she could only be brave, for just one moment.

All too soon they reached the house. Amy had left a light on by the front door, but the windows were dark, and if Nick thought it strange to see her car parked on the drive when she'd told him it was in the shop, he didn't comment on it. He only drew up to the curb, lurched to a stop and then turned to look at her in the feeble light of the streetlamp.

_Tell him now, _her heart screamed. _Do it now, while you still can. _

"Thanks," she said, and she could hear the quiver in her own voice when she spoke.

"Jen," Nick sighed, looking at her like his own heart was breaking, like he was wishing, just as she was, that they could walk into that house together and curl up beneath the same duvet, that they could wake to a kinder, quieter world than the one they knew, a world where they could be together, without lies or fear. No such future was waiting for them, she knew; if they started something now Waverly would rip them both to pieces and then one of them would be moved along, and the closeness she treasured, his constant presence, his soft smiles, his teasing words, his steady protection, would be gone.

"Duncan is going to be all right," he said.

A strangled sound left her, a half-stifled sob; she'd almost forgotten in the haze of her thoughts about Nick just how worried she was for Dunny. Of course Nick didn't know, couldn't know the extent of the turmoil that gripped her, but the sound of her distress seemed to snap something within him, and quite suddenly he reached for her. Softly, gently, reverently he caught her face in his hands, warm palms against her cheeks, and drew her towards him until she was gripping the lapels of his jacket in her hands and his forehead was pressed tight to her own.

"I'm scared," she whispered, eyes closed tight against the tears that threatened to fall. She was scared of losing Dunny, scared of losing Nick, scared she'd never have the life she wanted, scared for her son who deserved so much better, she thought, than what she'd given him so far. Charlie deserved to know his father, to know this man who meant so much to Jen. Charlie deserved to grow up listening to Nick's stories, going fishing and hiking with his dad, to sit on his father's lap and learn all the skills Jen knew Nick would want to pass on to his child. And Nick deserved that, too, but Jen could see no way to bring them together without breaking herself in half.

"I've got you," he answered softly.

The tears began to fall, then. She couldn't stop them, couldn't hold herself together a moment longer. _I've got you; _how many times, she wondered, had he said those words to her? For a year he had been by her side every moment, had loved her, protected her, laughed with her, cried with her, and now that he was back it was as if nothing had changed, as if still, even after all this time, he still wanted what they'd shared. Wanted _her. _It was everything Jen hoped for, but still, she could not see her way through the mess that lay at her feet.

"Good night, Nick," she breathed. She needed to leave, now; her courage had failed her, and she wanted nothing more than to hide, to retreat from her problems and her fears. The next day would bring her no peace, she knew, but she could not bring herself to face her secrets tonight. But she could not leave without letting him know, in some small way, that her heart ached for him, that she was so bloody grateful to have him by her side. And so she kissed him, once, gently, and then she turned and bolted from the ute before he could stop her.

It was not enough, that one kiss, not enough to leave the taste of him on her lips, not enough to sate her longing for him, but it was all she could allow herself, and so as she made her way to her front door she pressed her fingertips against her lips, held the promise of that kiss for as long as she could. She did not look back, could not bring herself to look back, but she did not need to, for she heard the sharp sound of the door slamming and the smack of Nick's shoes on the pavement as he raced after her. A single gasp escaped her, and then his hands were on her hips, turning her to face him, and her arms snaked around his neck as his lips came crashing into hers.

It had been too long, entirely too long since last he'd held her, touched her, moved her like this; he kept one hand locked on her hip but the other reached up, tangled in her hair and held her close while his tongue surged into her mouth and she melted in his arms, suddenly boneless, unable to fight against the torrent of emotions he inspired in her. _Christ, _it had been too long since the last day they'd spent in that house, when he'd led her into the bathroom and they'd folded themselves together in the shower, protected from the world beyond by a locked door and the pounding of the water. Too long since they'd slid to the floor in a heap, since he'd brushed his lips against her neck and whispered _don't forget me, Trish. _

As if she ever could.

When at last he pulled away she was breathless and her tears had stopped. He did not part from her completely, only pressed himself against her, his nose brushing her cheek, his arms still around her, his breath warm against her skin.

"I know the rules," he said in that low, steady tone that left her weak in the knees. "I know I can't ask you to risk your job for me. I know it's only been a few months. But, _Christ, _Jen-"

"I know," she answered. "I know."

It would fall to her to decide what came next. If she were to lead him into the house now, if she were to tell him the truth about Charlie, if she were to pull him into the shadows of her low front porch and shag him senseless, she would have to be the one to make that choice. He would not push her, or press for more than she was willing to give. She would have to _choose, _for both of them - all three of them - right now.

"Good night, Nick," she whispered. She kissed his cheek, and then she fled, unable to face him as she shattered both of their hearts.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're shaking," Nick said softly, keeping his voice low despite the fact that they were alone in the car, with no one there to see. The op had been a success and Dunny had been all smiles as he did the honors, snapping the handcuffs on Colin Rankin with glee despite the fact that he had several bruised ribs, courtesy of the bullet he'd taken square in the chest. Even Jen had smiled, relieved to see him standing on his feet once more, but now that they were alone it seemed the reality of what they'd just witnessed had begun to sink in. Nick tried not to dwell too long on what had happened the last time they were alone in a car together; _Christ, _he thought, _was that only last night? _Less than twenty-four hours since she'd kissed him so softly, since desperation had made him bold enough to tear after her, since he had wrapped his arms around her for the first time in four years and felt all the broken pieces of his heart slip back into place. She had turned him down, whispered _good night_ and walked into her little house all alone, and he had taken her words for what they were, a rejection of everything he'd offered her. It couldn't have been easy for her, he knew; he had felt her need, her yearning in her kiss, had known by the way she touched him, accepted him, surged up toward him that she wanted, just as he did, for them to fall back together, but she had found the strength to set aside her own desires in favor of protecting her career, her livelihood, and he could not fault her for that choice. Jen had chosen, and he would respect that decision, no matter how badly he wished things could go differently between them.

No matter how much he loved her.

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice was as unsteady as her hands, and she refused to meet his gaze, staring resolutely out the window, her posture tense and rigid.

This was familiar territory for Nick, her fear, her pain, her tendency to withdraw, to rely only on herself when her heart was in pieces. There had not been room for such independence in their previous operation, and their cover as a married couple had allowed Nick some leniency in certain areas. She had been terrified, he recalled, the first time they went to meet Hartono, and so as they stepped from the car he had taken her hand, pulled her in close, and smiled. _I've got you, _he'd whispered to her then, a promise that would become his mantra. Every time she stumbled, every time the weight of the work grew too much to bear, he had reached for her, and she had clung to him as if she were grateful for that tether, that reminder that she was not alone. And so, without even really stopping to consider the consequences, he reached for her now, covered her hand with his own and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

"Jen-" he started to say, but she cut him off at once, pulled her hand away and sighed.

"Not here," she told him gently.

There was no admonishment in her tone; if anything, she sounded as if she regretted it, having to pull back from him, having to remind him that they were sitting in his car at an active crime scene, that anyone could see them and their tenuous position would be completely upended. She was right, of course; they couldn't afford such a risk. He smiled, a bit sadly. She was always right.

"Right," he said, and without another word he started the car, and drove away. Heading back to the office, back to work, back to interviews and booking and the endless reams of paperwork that would accompany an officer-involved shooting; Nick, Duncan, and Jen had all three fired their weapons, and the Karlsen brothers had both ended up on their backs in the dirt, bleeding. The cleanup would take ages, and when the work was finally done they would have to go home, each of them, alone. He tried not to dwell too long on that prospect, either.

As he drove his thoughts wandered back to her, as they so often did. She had been so scared, the night before. Scared enough to tell him so, and that fact spoke for itself. She was a tough girl, his Jen. Brave, and strong, and determined, he had seen her face all sorts of dangers, had seen her remain calm in the midst of chaos, even if she allowed herself to fall to pieces later. The events of the day had shaken her, though. No one had told them that Dunny would be wearing a vest, and Nick had been as frightened as Jen, when he watched their friend collapse in the dirt. Jen had gone straight to him, desperate to help him, and Nick had covered her, stood over her with his weapon at the ready, waited with his heart in his throat until Dunny had laughed, until Jen had rocked back on her heels and cried _I'm going to kill you _in a voice that was near to tears with relief. Nick had pulled Duncan to his feet, and he was fine, now, but still Jen was troubled by how close they'd come to losing him. Years before, she would have been laughing with the rest of them, but now it seemed she was taking things a bit harder. _They're friends, _he reminded himself. Jen had built a life in this place; this wasn't just a secondment, one job with an eventual end date, a moment when she would leave and never see any of them again. This was her life, these people as good as her family, and Nick grieved for her.

But she had made it clear she wasn't looking for comfort, that whatever it was he wanted from her he could not have it, and so he kept his mouth shut, and drove them to the station in silence.

* * *

"Nothing better than locking scumbags away," Duncan said with a smile as they finished briefing Jarvis on the current state of affairs. It was late, and most of the details had been seen to, but Nick, Duncan, and Jen remained locked to their desks. Before any of them could seek their beds they would need to finish typing up their reports on the shooting, one final task before they could finally turn their backs on this day. Nick, for one, would be glad to see the end of it. Working in tandem with Jen again, moving as a team, guns in hand, protecting one another; it was too much like the old days, and his thoughts were muddled, memories of the night before and the heat of her kiss leaving him out of sorts and exhausted.

"Isn't there?" Jarvis said, his voice heavy with meaning, and all of them took it for the piece of wisdom that it was, the reminder that there was a life to live beyond those four walls. Not that any of them had much in the way of a life; Duncan lived alone, still quietly mourning his late fiance, and Nick lived alone, slowly working away at a list of renovations he knew he'd never finish, and Jen lived alone, with no one but her little cat for company. _We're a sorry lot, _he thought grimly.

"Don't stay too late, you mob," Jarvis told them, and then he was gone, his words sitting heavy in Nick's gut. He worked three feet away from the life he wanted, the life he now he could never have, Jen's smile and her soft hair and her sparkling eyes and her gentle hands reminding him every moment how wonderful his life could be, if only fate had been a little kinder to them.

"I need coffee," Jen said softly, watching Jarvis's departing figure until he vanished into the elevator. "Anyone else?"

Nick wanted to tease her, say something lighthearted about how she'd never get to sleep now, but somehow he didn't think she'd appreciate it and they were all rostered off for the following day, anyway. _Let her do what she likes, _he told himself.

Jen left them, then, and it was just Nick and Duncan, pecking away at their computers in the silence of the station after hours, but only for a moment. The elevator doors slid open, and Duncan looked up, and his face split into a wide smile.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," he said, rising to his feet, and so Nick took that as his cue to stand as well.

A young woman was marching purposefully towards them, a sleepy-looking toddler cradled in her arms. She looked to be in her late twenties, with soft blonde hair she wore pulled back from her face in a long braid, dressed in blue jeans and a faded t-shirt bearing the logo of some band Nick had never heard of. The little boy in her arms couldn't have been much more than three; his hair was a dark, shiny shade of brown, and he was dressed in a pair of pajamas covered in pictures of little green dinosaurs. He wore no shoes, only a pair of little white socks, and the sight of his little feet made him seem oddly vulnerable to Nick.

"Little late for you isn't, eh, Ames?" Duncan said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"Someone couldn't sleep," she said, and Duncan smiled, tousled the little boy's hair. At the touch his eyes opened blearily, dark brown and wide and warm, and Nick smiled, wondering who they were, this woman who seemed to know her way around the station, this little boy Duncan treated so gently.

"Say hi to Uncle Dunny," the girl said.

"Hi, Uncle Dunny," the boy repeated dutifully, apparently unfazed by Duncan's attention.

"You should be in bed, mate," Duncan said with an easy smile, but the next moment the boy's eyes lit up, and he struggled against the woman's grip.

"Mummy!" he called as the woman put him on his feet, and Nick watched with a sinking feeling in his gut as the little boy lumbered forward, his socks slipping against the floor until Jen caught up with him, scooped him up and held him close.

"Hello, my love," Jen said softly, pressing a kiss against his cheek. "What are you doing out of bed?"

_Mummy? _Nick thought, his eyes dancing wildly from the little boy's face to Jen's and back again. Nothing he had seen or heard since her return had given him reason to believe she had a child at home, and yet here she stood, holding him close, as natural as breathing. Parted of him wanted to be cross with her, for keeping this secret from him, but in the moment he could feel nothing but confusion.

"That's my fault," the young woman said apologetically as Jen came to stand beside her. "He had a bad dream and he wouldn't stop crying. You said you were only doing paperwork so I thought-"

"It's fine, Amy, really," Jen said sincerely. "I'm glad, actually. I missed you, bug," she told the boy.

He didn't answer; it seemed that just seeing his mother was enough to calm him, for his eyes had closed and he was sucking absently on his thumb, giving every appearance of being perfectly content.

"I know you've got to work," Amy said, reaching as if to take him back, but Jen did not relinquish her hold on her son.

_Her son, _Nick thought faintly, feeling rather as if he'd just been run over by a train. _Her son?_

"I've just got to finish my report, and then I'll be done," Jen told her, somewhat apologetically. It was nearly eleven, far too late for a little boy to be out of bed, missing his mummy.

"I can take him back home, he just wanted to see you before he went back to bed."

Jen looked down at her son, smiled at him so softly, so warmly, that Nick's heart ached in his chest at the sight of it.

_With the job we do, the hours we work, it wouldn't be fair. _He couldn't believe he'd said those words to her, now that he knew she had a child of her own to look after, couldn't believe she'd let him say something like that and not defend herself, her choices. Although really, he couldn't believe any of this; it was as if he'd wandered into a dream, a different life altogether.

"Weren't you supposed to go out tonight?" Jen asked Amy, but the girl just shook her head.

"It's fine, really, these things happen-"

"What time does the show start?"

Amy's face lit up, young and eager; _who is she? _Nick wanted to ask, wanted to reach out to Jen, turn her to face him, demand an accounting from her. _Who is this woman, and where did this boy come from? Who is he, Jen?_

"About ten minutes," Amy said, hope shining through in her tone, and Jen just laughed.

"Go," she said. "I'm just typing a report and he's already asleep. I can take it from here. Go, have fun."

"You're the best, Jenny," Amy cried, kissing her quickly on the cheek before making a beeline for the elevator.

"Have fun, Ames!" Duncan called after her, still smiling, still riding the high from a successful operation.

"See ya later, Dunny!" she called, and then Duncan was turning back to his work, and Jen was making her way back to her desk. She stopped short when she caught sight of Nick, though, standing so close with his hands in his pockets, watching her intently.

"Who's this?" he asked, trying not to let the hurt, the confusion, the doubt he felt show. _And exactly how old is he, Jen? How quickly did you move on, after everything we went through? _The boy looked to be about three, and it had been four years since the last time he'd held her; _too close,_ he thought, his mind reeling as he added it all up.

In the harsh lights overhead Jen looked exhausted and close to tears, but she kept her back straight and her chin up as she answered him.

"This is Charlie."

_Charlie. _She had lied to him then, not once but a half a dozen times, told him Charlie was just a cat. _Why did she lie? _he asked himself as he looked at her now, took note of the agony written all over her face. At the sound of her voice the little boy's eyes fluttered open, and he regarded Nick with a serious, eerily familiar sort of stare.

"Hello, Charlie," Nick said quietly.

"Charlie, this is Nick," Jen's voice shook, slightly, as she introduced them. "Can you say hi?"

"Hi," Charlie answered, eyeing Nick somewhat warily.

Carefully Jen stepped away, lowered herself into her chair and reached for her computer while Charlie leaned his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes, his thumb slipping into his mouth once again. Somehow Nick found the strength to return to his own chair, but he could not tear his eyes from the sight of them, Jen and her son. Her _son._

How many times, he wondered, had he thought about Jen with a child of her own, thought what a wonderful mother she would make? How many times had he dreamed of the life they could have had, if only things were different? To see it now, to see how tender she was with this child she plainly adored, to see the love and affection in her gaze, to see how content the boy was simply to be near her no matter the circumstances, touched his heart in a way he had never expected. But somewhere in the back of his mind in a place he feared to tread, a terrible suspicion had begun to grow.


	7. Chapter 7

Nick Buchanan had always been a quiet man. His voice was soft, and warm, and gentle, even when he teased her. In moments of confusion or doubt or merriment he was more likely to raise an eyebrow at her, to hold her gaze, to offer a nod or a shake of his head than he was to prattle on with platitudes and complaints. She had always appreciated that about him, his quiet, steady strength. What she meant to him, the feelings he carried in his heart, his longing, his affection, his offers of protection, these things he had so often communicated to her without words, and she had understood him, had appreciated this aspect of his nature. Nick Buchanan was a man who spoke with his hands. Those hands; he held them out to her without reservation, pulled back when she stumbled, pressed his hand to her shoulder or the small of her back or let his knuckles brush against the back of her hand and in those moments she heard all too plainly the words he could not say. When she tripped over the loose floorboard on the porch of their temporary home Jen had cursed, and Nick had silently departed, returning a moment later with a hammer and a pouch full of nails retrieved from the storage cupboard, and he had without prompting from her or pride for himself fixed the board at once. There was no pain, no grief, no problem those hands could not solve.

He was sitting silently now, watching her, she knew, though she did not dare rise her eyes to his face. Her own hands were trembling as she stumbled through the last of her report, Charlie sleeping peacefully on her lap, caught between the cages of her extended arms with his head lolling back against her shoulder. When he was content, Charlie slept like the dead, and he did so now, silent and calm. Like his father.

_His father. _

For weeks, for months Jen had been trying to solve this riddle, trying, without success, to find some way forward, some way to reveal the truth to Nick without sabotaging her own career, without breaking his heart - or hers - in the process. No solution had come to her, but whenever she had tried to imagine it in the past, the scenario had never played out like this. Never like this, Nick finding out quite by accident, Charlie thrust into his life without care for his feelings on the matter. Never like this, Jen feeling so scared and helpless, unable to speak the truth to him for the sake of Dunny's presence on the other side of their desks, for the sake of Charlie, who could never hope to understand the thoughts racing through his parents' minds, for the sake of their ever-present colleagues, the night shift wandering through the station with open ears. She had never imagined it would be like this, that she would be so scared, so lost, that circumstances would be so far beyond her control.

It didn't really matter, she knew, what she had wanted, what she had intended, how much she wished this night had never happened; the thing was done. Nick knew, now, knew that she had a son, knew that she had been lying to him for months, and the weight of his gaze grew heavy on her shoulders. What he must think of her? She asked herself as the words turned to blurry squiggles on the screen in front of her. Did he have any inkling that this little boy with his dark hair and his dark eyes and his serious face was his own flesh and blood? Or worse, did he think that Charlie was someone else's, that Jen had raced from his arms into the bed of another, that she had so easily forgotten everything they meant to one another?

That mattered to her, a very great deal. She could not bear the thought of Nick sitting there, looking at her, thinking she held another man's child on her lap, that she had already moved beyond all the experiences - _the love -_ that they had shared, that she had no interest in him as anything more than a colleague. He had kissed her, the night before, a kiss so sweet and full of longing that it nearly brought tears to her eyes to remember it now, and she knew that she had to tell him the truth, and quickly. He needed to _know, _to know how she had cared for him, before, how she cared for him still, to know that his place had not been usurped by another, to know that she had never really found it in her heart to move past her love of him. There were so many things he needed to know, so many things she longed to tell him, but she could not speak those words in this place, not while Dunny looked on, not while she held her sleeping child on her lap.

"Jen," he said softly, and she jumped at the sound of his voice. Somehow, she had not quite expected him to speak, had expected him to analyze the circumstances for himself, make his assessment and move on with no word from her. With a heart full of dread she turned to look at him, searching his face for some sign of what he was thinking in that moment. His eyes were dark and troubled, but there was no anger in him, and for that she was truly grateful.

"It's late," he continued. "The report can wait. You heard Jarvis. You don't have to stay."

The rest of his thought remained unspoken; _the boy should be home, in bed. A police station in the dead of night is no place for a child. _

He was right, of course. He always was.

"Yeah, all right," she agreed, her voice drawn and haggard-sounding to her own ears. "I'll finish this later."

Perhaps he smiled, to see her so readily comply with his suggestion. Perhaps he smiled to see the way she shifted carefully with her child on her lap, the movements deft after three years of learning how to accommodate Charlie in her life. Perhaps he frowned, still asking himself a million questions about where Charlie had come from. Jen did not know, for she staunchly refused to look at him as she shut down her computer for the night and began to gather up her belongings.

"Here," he said suddenly as she fumbled with her purse, still seated with Charlie on her lap. Jen had been wondering how best to go about getting out of her chair; she would need to juggle Charlie and her handbag and gather her laptop, and her son was floppy and boneless in her arms, still sleeping soundly. It would seem that Nick had recognized her dilemma at once, for as he spoke he rose to his feet and crossed to her side.

"Let me help," he said quietly. For a moment she thought he meant to take her bags for her, or perhaps to slide his hand under her arm and help her to rise, but then she realized what it was he intended and the breath vanished from her lungs.

Very carefully, as if he could somehow sense her rising distress, Nick reached for Charlie. His hands were gentle and sure, his movements slow and designed not to jostle the boy overmuch, and as Jen watched, helpless and lost and so hopelessly _sad,_ he lifted Charlie from her lap and held him tight. For a single instant she could do no more than stare up at him, this man she loved with her whole heart, this man fate had returned to her amidst such strife, holding their child in his arms for the very first time. Those arms; strong and thick with heavy muscle she had traced every line of his arms with her fingertips, had fallen asleep countless times with the weight of those arms reassuring her as he held her close, had wrapped her hands around his bicep and clung to him. She loved those arms - loved every piece of him - and to see Charlie cradled in those arms now, save and sheltered by his father, was enough to bring the sting of tears to her eyes. How many times had she dreamed of this, wished with her whole heart that Nick could hold their son, that she could watch him smile softly down at this child who meant the world to her, that they could be, all three of them, together and content? It had been a long day, a difficult day, and she was at the end of her rope; it was growing harder by the second to keep herself in check.

As quickly as she could Jen rose, slung her purse over her shoulder and stuffed her laptop into its bag before draping that over her shoulder as well. She started to reach for Charlie again, but a strange look crossed Nick's face. He had been staring down at their son - _their son, _not Jen's alone, and _Christ _but she needed to tell him that, and soon - in wonder, and as Jen started to reach for him he seemed strangely reluctant to turn Charlie over to her.

_He knows, _Jen thought glumly. _He must know. _

"Let me walk you to your car," he said.

Jen stared at him, taken aback by the request.

"I can manage," she protested, but her thoughts were racing, wondering if Nick had offered his help in order to give them a moment alone in the garage, away from prying eyes, if he intended to interrogate her there, where no one could see, when her defenses were down and she would be helpless to resist him. She should have known better than to doubt him, even for a moment, and she immediately regretted those terrible fears as he spoke again and laid them to rest.

"You've got your hands full, and it's nearly midnight. I don't want you walking down there alone. Let me help."

Twice now he had spoken those words to her; _let me help,_ he'd said, and she found herself wondering if this was all he was offering, just an escort to help her reach her car unmolested, or if perhaps there was something more behind his words. When she finally told him the truth - an occasion she knew was imminent - would he still want to help? She rather thought he might; Nick didn't have it in him to be so callous, to turn his back on his own child, no matter how unexpected or how unwanted that child might have been. What form that help might take remained to be seen.

"All right," she said, and so they made their way out of the station together, Charlie sleeping peacefully in Nick's arms all the while.

* * *

In the end, he had not pressed her for details. Nick had slipped Charlie into his carseat, watched as Jen buckled him in, and then murmured, _good night, Jen, _stepping back and watching silently as she closed the car door and then drove away. The questions he had not asked hung heavy as a ship's anchor around her neck, but it was late, and she was tired, all out of sorts, and so she had not broached the subject herself. Perhaps that had been unwise, letting such an opportunity pass her by, but it was done, now. She would have to find another moment.

_Tomorrow, _she told herself as she sank beneath the warm water of her bath. Charlie was asleep and it would likely be sunrise before Amy came wandering back in through the door. Jen had a few hours yet to spend alone, contemplating her predicament and trying to find a way forward. The best course of action, she thought, would be to wait until daylight, and call Nick. Ask him to meet her for coffee in the afternoon when Amy would be sufficiently recovered to look after Charlie, and lay out all the details for him then. Somewhere public, but anonymous, somewhere Charlie's eyes would not follow them as they spoke, somewhere her tears would go unremarked on by her sister. For there would be tears, she knew; Jen could not help but feel as if she'd ruined everything already, as if any feelings Nick might harbor for her must surely have already been shattered by the gravity of her deceit.

It would seem Nick had other plans, for as Jen soaked in her bath her mobile suddenly chirped, heralding an incoming text message. Dutifully she dried her hand and reached for it, wondering if it was Amy in need of some assistance or if was worse, something to do with work. It was neither.

It was Nick.

_Are you awake, _he'd written. Three simple words, and yet they knocked the wind out of her. It was one o'clock in the morning, and by all rights she should have been asleep, and Nick should have been as well. Except that he wasn't; he was awake, and thinking of her, but possessed of enough civility to text her, rather than ring her, in case she was already sleeping.

_Yes,_ she typed back with trembling fingers.

_Can we talk?_

Her heart began to race. This was it, she realized. Nick had his questions, and he wanted answers, and he had just presented her with the opportunity to unburden herself to him. Only she couldn't bear to do it like this, one hesitantly typed word at a time. Even a call would not do, she felt, for something this serious. She needed to see his face, but more than that she needed him to see hers, needed him to look into her eyes and know that every word she told him was truth. When finally she told him that she had loved him, so fiercely that she had kept his child and raised the boy and loved him with everything she had despite the fact that she believed she would never see Nick again, she needed him to know how earnest those words were. When she explained the reasons for her obfuscation and begged his forgiveness, she needed him to know that she was being sincere.

_Not on the phone,_ she answered. Jen had already made her plan, and if only Nick could wait a few hours, then she could -

_I'm outside, _he'd written. _You don't have to let me in. I can leave. But I'm here. _

She was out of the bath and drying herself off the instant she finished reading his message. Perhaps it was foolish, to speak to him now, when she was so tired and her thoughts were so scrambled, but he had come to her, had driven to her home and parked his ute outside in the dead of night just to speak to her. And in truth, his offer to leave moved her more than his impulsive arrival at her door; his passion had brought him here, but his regard for her would not allow him to force his way in uninvited. That was Nick, through and through; his love ran deep, those emotions he so rarely showed fathomless in their intensity, but he was gentle, and he always put the needs of those he cared for above his own. He would leave, if she asked it of him.

She never would.

_Don't ring the bell, _she told him. _I'll open the door for you._

And that was it. She reached for her faded floral robe and wrapped herself in it, ran her fingers through her damp hair and squared her shoulders.

The moment had come. There would never be a better time for her to speak to him, even if it was the small hours of the morning, even if she was naked and vulnerable beneath her robe, even if she was exhausted and terrified of what must surely happen next. Nick would not have driven to her home, she knew, if some part of him did not suspect the truth, if the need to know was not eating him alive, and she could not bring herself to leave him alone in his distress a moment longer. There would be no more hiding, now, at least not from him. With her heart pounding in her chest Jen left the bathroom, and went to open the door.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hi," Jen said softly as she opened the door.

"Hi," Nick answered, keeping his voice low, not wanting to wake Charlie. Charlie, that little boy whose angel face had been dancing through Nick's mind for hours now. Charlie, Jen's son, who looked so unlike her with his dark hair and dark eyes. _He must get them from his father, _Nick had mused while he watched the two of them together at the station, and the thought had sat heavy as lead in his gut ever since. It was that thought - and a bit of hasty maths - that had set his heart to racing, sent him driving to her door in the dead of night. But he had not rung the bell, because surely Charlie must have been sleeping, and Nick rather thought the boy needed his rest, even if sleep was still far off for Jen and Nick themselves.

"Come with me," she whispered, opening the door wide and gesturing for him to step into the house. He did so, trying to ignore the way his heart ached at the sight of her, warm and soft in her faded robe, trying to ignore the soft scent of lavender that floated in the around her, the way her hair was damp and curling at the ends, as if she'd just stepped from the bath. She looked beautiful, but then to him, she always was.

As he stepped into her house for the first time he could not help but recall the night before, when he'd raced after her, caught up to her as she strode across the grass towards her front door, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her with everything he had. Would things have gone differently, he wondered, if he'd known that Charlie was sleeping in that house? Would things have gone differently if Charlie had not been there at all? Nick didn't know, could hardly find order in the chaos of his own thoughts as they flitted through his mind. He was confused, he was angry, he was hurt, he was scared, and he needed, more than anything, to talk to Jen. He needed to sit down with her, for them to work their way through this problem together, the way they had so often done in the past, needed to feel her hand in his own, needed to hear her say the words. He did not know what he would do, what would become of them, if she told him that Charlie was his son. But then he did not know what would happen if she told him otherwise, for the very thought that someone else could mean so much to Jen, that someone else could have left such an indelible mark upon her life, grieved him deeply.

She led him through the house and he followed along in her wake, wondering idly where she was leading him, whether she would take him to the kitchen or her bedroom or somewhere else entirely. It did not matter to Nick; they could have this conversation huddled together over the loo, for all he cared, so long as he could have the chance to speak with her. The house was neat, but not drastically so; toys were piled in the corner of the sitting room, model trains and plastic dinosaurs and big wooden puzzles, and there were shoes in a heap by the front door, Charlie's made conspicuous by their size, and there were blankets and an oversized woman's jumper laid over the back of the sofa. There were dirty dishes in the sink, he noted with a detached sort of amusement as Jen led him through the kitchen; she had always hated washing the dishes.

At first he thought she meant for them to stop there in the kitchen, but she led him through another door, and then they were standing together outside, looking over her back garden. It was a small patch of bright green grass hemmed by a tall wooden fence. There were more toys here, and a strange bare circle where the grass had recently been dug up, and two lawn chairs were sitting on either side of a small, glass-topped table. It was there she stopped, by the chairs, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked up at him through the dim light shining out from the kitchen windows. They lingered there, neither of them taking a seat; Nick could not speak for Jen, but he was too keyed up to settle himself in one of those chairs.

"Voices carry, inside," she said, by way of explanation. "I thought it would be better to talk out here."

"It's fine," he told her. And it was; this spot was as good as any for their conversation, and he was glad that she had taken steps to keep their words from reaching Charlie's ear. There were some things, Nick thought, that the boy did not need to hear.

For a moment he simply looked at Jen, took in the mess of her soft blonde hair, the drawn expression on her beautiful face. She looked tired, and worn, and scared, just a little. He hated that, more than anything; after everything they'd been through together, all that they meant to one another, he could not stand the thought that she might be afraid of him. Whatever happened next, whatever she might have to tell him, he was resolved to do his best not to prove her fears justified.

"Nick," she sighed, in a voice very close to tears. The pounding of his heart picked up speed as the moment stretched on, as he warred with himself, trying to find the words to frame the question he most longed to ask her. They were standing together on a warm evening in December of 2009, and they'd parted ways in November of 2005. If Charlie was three...well, Nick wasn't exactly an expert, but it hadn't taken much for him to connect the dots. He would have to ask her, though, he knew, would have to find a way to broach this topic, to leave them both vulnerable and aching, and he could not seem to find a way to do it that was not crass or cruel. The last thing he wanted was to be cruel to her; she mean too much to him for that.

She meant everything to him.

"Tell me about Charlie," he said slowly.

* * *

This was agony, Jen thought. Standing here, seeing the conflict in his eyes, the tension of his posture, hearing him broach the subject so delicately, wore on her already fraying nerves. It was late, she was exhausted, Dunny had come perilously close to dying earlier in the day, and she could not face the prospect of hedging around the truth now. Not now, not when Nick had seen Charlie, when he must have at least suspected the truth, and she knew that he must, for she could see no other reason why he would come around so late at night, unasked and uninvited and clearly distressed.

"Ask me what you really want to ask me, Nick," she answered.

His eyes hardened, his mouth turning down in the ghost of a frown. Perhaps he did not approve of her tone, or perhaps he feared that her words heralded news he did not wish to receive. It was too late, now, though, for she had set the ball to rolling, had prepared herself for the worst, insofar as she was able.

"Is he mine, Jen?" Nick's tone was low, and just this side of frustrated.

_Mine. _That word echoed in her mind like a terrible drum, a portent of doom. _Mine. _There was ownership in that word, and though she supposed that could be a good thing, could be an indication of responsibility and care, there was a possessive note to it she liked not one bit. Charlie was _hers_, a child she had carried within her own body, a child she had brought forth in blood and pain, a child she had devoted her life to caring for, a child Nick had only met a bare few hours before. Whoever his father was Charlie was _hers,_ and there was a part of her that loathed the very idea of sharing him with anyone else, just as there was a part of her that remained starkly terrified, knowing that with her next few words she might well provide Nick the leverage he needed to take Charlie from her. Still, she reminded herself, this was _Nick, _Nick who had only ever been kind and gentle with her, Nick who had encouraged her, supported her, cared for her in a way that no one else ever had done. If she had to share her son with anyone, she supposed she ought to be grateful for this gift, that her son's father remained the best man she had ever known.

"Yes," she said softly.

He spun away from her, took a few steps and stood with his back to her, staring out blankly at the garden. His shoulders were tight, his back ramrod straight, his chin lifted as if in defiance of the emotions her words had no doubt sparked within him. That he should choose to step away in this moment wounded her, and she could not stop herself from going to him, resting her hand gently against the rock-hard muscle of his back. Maybe he was angry, or hurt, or any one of a hundred other things he had every right to be, but she could not let the silence linger, could not risk them drawing apart from one another in this crucial moment.

"I didn't know," she told him desperately, all but pleading with him to understand. "It was weeks before I realized I was pregnant and by then it was too late. I couldn't call SIS and ask where you were, we would have been ruined if they found out what we'd done. They might not have told me, anyway. If there had been some way for me to contact you I would have, Nick. Please-"

He turned back towards her as she spoke, her hand sliding away from his body as he looked down at her in the darkness, his expression unreadable.

"I've been back for months," he pointed out, leaning towards her, his gaze focused entirely on her in a way that left her feeling as if she were sitting in one of the station's interrogation rooms. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

The very question left her agonized; he was right to accuse her, she knew. She'd waited far too long, and she could only imagine how that must have made him feel, what he must think of her now.

"Nick-"

"You told me Charlie was your cat."

She blanched at the reminder of her lie, the way she had deliberately chosen to keep Nick away from Charlie, and she rushed to defend herself.

"I'd only just seen you for the first time in years," she pointed out, struggling to keep her voice low. "That was the first time I ever even heard your real name. I had to think about what was best for Charlie. It's my job to keep him safe. I had to be sure…"

The words left her then, as she realized how they must have sounded, as she realized how their circumstances must have looked to Nick. It had never been her intention to wound him, or to keep Charlie from him indefinitely, but she had done so, just the same.

"Had to be sure of what?"

* * *

Nick's hands were trembling. He felt as if he'd just been struck by lightning, as if his hair must surely be standing on end, as if every nerve in his body had been shocked into near insensibility. _Yes. _such a small, simple word, and yet with it Jen had just changed the course of his life. _Yes, _Charlie was his son, _yes _the love he'd felt for Jen four years before - the same love that made him want to reach out to her now, pull her into his arms and never let her go - had resulted in this most unexpected outcome, this sweet-faced child sleeping inside the house behind them. _Yes, _they were bound, now, not by virtue of the jobs they did or the violence they had faced together but by the blood that flowed through the veins of their child. _Theirs, _a piece of them both, wrapped up in the form of that little boy Nick already knew he loved more than his own life.

And yet she had not told him, and though he supposed in a way he could understand it he could not help but grieve, to know that she had spent the last few months keeping this secret, that were it not for the strange twist of fate that had brought Amy - and who the hell was Amy, any way? - and Charlie to the station that night he might have continued on ignorance for longer still.

"I had to be sure that you were the same man I remembered."

Her words left him winded and reeling, just a little. The same question had plagued him, that night when they were reunited; he had looked at her across the table as they sat together with their friends and wondered how the time had changed her, wondered if the differences between Jen and Trish were more than just their clothes and occupations, if in the coming days she would reveal herself to be another woman entirely, one he did not recognize. Four years was a long time, and he had no notion of what she'd endured during their separation; she could have been anyone, and it had been strange at first, spending time with her, this woman he knew intimately and yet remained a stranger to him.

"Am I?" he asked her. He had found the answer to his own questions, had discovered over the intervening months that she was as compassionate, as capable, as clever, as lovely as his memories, and more besides for now he was able to know her as she was, in a place where she was comfortable and safe, surrounded by her friends, where secrets did not rule. Or at least, he had thought the secrets were behind them; he prayed this would be the end of such obfuscation between them. As he waited for her answer he held his breath, dreading it and needing it in equal measure.

"Of course you are," she answered, her voice ragged with emotion. "Nick, you were the best man I've ever known. You still are. I'm so _sorry…"_

The tears overcame her, as she spoke that word _sorry, _and what remained of Nick's self-restraint fell away entirely. He pulled her to him, hard, crushed her against his chest as her hands fisted in the back of his shirt and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, painted his skin with her tears. In his arms she was shaking, small and scared and no doubt as overwhelmed as he was himself. For years she had carried this burden alone; _Christ, _he thought, how difficult must that have been for her? Sleepless nights and doctors visits and child care and injuries and illnesses, their child had been wholly dependent on Jen for everything, and she had walked this road with no one to share the load. She must have been exhausted, he thought. She must have been devastated. And yet she had chosen this path, knowing that chances were good she would never see Nick again, that Charlie would never know his father. She had chosen to raise this child, to love him, and in that moment Nick was overwhelmed by the enormity of that decision.

"It's all right," he murmured, her hair tickling his chin as he drew in a deep breath. There were so many other things he wanted to tell her; he wanted to tell her how he loved her, how he had loved her four years before and the night before and in this moment. He wanted to tell her how many nights, after one beer too many, he had sat staring down at his car keys, knowing he could find Abdul Supomo, wanting to find him, wanting to ask - to beg - for information about where Jen had gone. He wanted to tell her how none of the women he'd met had ever stuck with him the way she had done, how when he went home in the evenings he sometimes still wished he would find her there waiting for him, like old times. He wanted to tell her that he understood, now, why she had taken so long to tell him the truth, understood why she had been so careful with this secret. Charlie was precious to her, as well he should have been, and it was a risk to reveal his existence to someone she did not know, someone she could not trust. She had given that trust to Nick, now, had laid her burdens at his feet, and as he held her he could feel her resistance give way to acceptance. She had been hesitant to share this with him before, but there was no turning back now, and Nick would not abandon her, not for anything. Whatever happened next, they would face it together.

"It's all right," he said again.


	9. Chapter 9

_15 July 2005_

"Sometimes, my friend, I think you are the luckiest man in the world," Hartono said, offering Nick a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that Nick had found unsettling in the beginning, but one he had come to know, to tolerate, if not enjoy. There was something not quite human about Mohammad Hartono, about his dark, soulless eyes, his preternatural calm, his calculating mind. Death was Hartono's trade, and he had grown prosperous and powerful in that field, and the only reason he was still alive was that he did not ever let his guard down. Even now, when most of the guests on his fantastically opulent yacht had drunk themselves into a stupor and shuffled below decks to sleep it off, when the night was clear and cool and peaceful, he sat still and tense and rigid in his seat, sipping only water. That stillness troubled even Nick, who was himself not a talkative man, but he was well-practiced in hiding his own disquiet.

"Sometimes, mate, I think you're right," Nick answered with a grin, sliding his hand along Trish's thigh and looking up at her adoringly. She sat perched on his lap, her arms around his neck, and when he caught her gaze she smiled, and bowed her head to drop a kiss against the tip of his nose.

"You're sweet," she told him.

"Your husband is a smart man, Mrs. Claybourne," Hartono said, and Trish turned slightly, watching him while Nick's hand lingered on her thigh. They'd been playing this game for almost a year, and while parts of it were still hard to stomach, there were aspects of his new life as Wesley Claybourne that were coming more easily to Nick, now. Touching Trish, holding her, loving her, had become as natural as breathing, and that scared him more than anything else.

"Wealth, power, status, these things mean nothing if you have no one to share them with."

It was a strange sentiment, Nick thought, coming from man who had no family to speak of, whose only friends were business acquaintances he did not entirely trust, but it wasn't his place to question the man.

"Too true," he murmured, and Trish's arms tightened around his neck, one of her hands drifting up to sift through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Nick shivered at her touch, wishing, not for the first time, that they were somewhere far from here, alone, without the obligations and the restrictions that fettered them now.

"And I think I am quite lucky," Hartono said, "to have such wonderful friends." He lifted his glass as if in salute, and Nick did the same, taking a sip of his beer while Hartono took a drink of water, watching Nick thoughtfully over the rim of his glass all the while. Those eyes; Nick had dreamed about them, a time or two. Black, expressionless, unfathomable, Hartono's eyes haunted him, the man himself reminding Nick of nothing so much as some great shark, circling, circling, circling, always planning his next move, always one step ahead of the game. The noose was tightening, whether Hartono knew it or not, but Nick could not help but wonder if when the time came the man would slip free, and swim off to deeper, darker waters.

"It's late," Hartono said, rising to his feet. Trish slid off his lap, and for a moment Nick lamented the loss of her; she was a small woman, slight and delicately built, and the warmth of her sprawled across his lap had been a comfort. It was dangerous, he knew, to even think such a thing, but the truth remained.

"Please, stay," Hartono told her, waving his hand. "Enjoy this lovely night. Enjoy one another. We can talk business in the morning, yes?"

He did not wait for an answer, simply turned and disappeared through the hatch. Trish watched him go and then turned back to Nick, her face pale and wan in the dim lights that twinkled on strings overhead.

"Bed?" she asked him.

There was no one else around, but still Nick did not dare let his guard down. Not until they were safe in their cabin with the door locked, and even then he knew they could not be assured of their privacy. He could not be _Nick, _not even for a moment; he had to be _Wesley, _always, gregarious shipping magnate, man of questionable morals, Trish's devoted husband. And she understood, of course she did, for she did not linger at a distance but stepped up to him, ruffled his hair in her hands, moved with him when he caught hold of her hips and drew her closer. His forehead brushed against her stomach and then he lifted his chin, stared up at her while still she touched him so gently. _Christ, _but he wanted her.

"You go on down," he told her in a low voice. "I want to speak to the captain. I'll be there soon."

She smiled and kissed his forehead, and he tried to ignore the way his heart ached at her touch. They were meant to be _married, _and that meant that such affection had become commonplace between them. Even in their own house, when they were alone and free from the roles assigned to them - or as free as they could be - still they touched one another often, never drifted far away. There was no one else in the world he could depend on as completely as his Trish, no one else in the world as precious to him as she, and this, this want, this yearning, this comfort, had long since ceased to be contrived. It was genuine, now, the affection he felt for her, and sometimes when she touched him he rather thought that she felt the same.

"Don't make me wait too long," she told him, and then she was dancing away from him, making her way downstairs to their bed. She would be safe going to bed alone, he knew; they had spent the last two days and nights on this yacht, making plans with Hartono and a few of the other higher ups in the business, and those plans had made Trish and Wesley Claybourne indispensable to the man. He _needed_ them now, he would not harm them. Not today.

Nick heaved himself out of the chair and downed the last of his beer in one long gulp. The beer, only his second of the night, had gone flat and warm, and the taste of it was sour and unpleasant. Still, though, he was not the sort of man to leave a thing undone. He returned his glass to the table and made his way to the front of the boat, to the control room where one of their own was standing watch.

_Bloody spooks, _Nick thought. _They think of everything. _The man who piloted the boat was SIS, the man who served the drinks was, too, and then there was Nick and Trish - or whatever her bloody name was - taking note of Hartono's every word and passing it along. A vast, crawling network of spies, slowly building the case that would put an end to Hartono's empire. _At what cost, _he asked himself, though he banished the thought as he entered the control room, knowing that such musings would only bring him grief.

"All right?" Nick asked the man as he stepped into the room. Bobby was sitting with his feet propped up on the dashboard in front of him, reading a magazine that Trish would not have approved of, giving every appearance of being totally unbothered by their circumstances. Nick wished he shared the young man's sense of ease.

"All good, boss," Bobby told him. "We dropped anchor for the night. I'm about to go to bed myself."

"Right," Nick said, satisfied with that answer. Bobby had some way of communicating with Abdul Supomo, and though Nick did not entirely understand it, he knew he had no choice but to trust it. _Trust, _that was the name of the game. He had to trust Supomo, and he had to trust Trish, and he had trust bloody Bobby the ship's captain and Marcus the waiter. Not trusting them could get him killed. Of course, a lot of things could get him killed, these days. "Have a good night, then."

"And you," Bobby said, and then Nick was leaving, making his way back downstairs to his temporary bed, to his temporary wife.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he closed the cabin door behind him, the snick of the lock deeply satisfying to his ears. They were safe, in this place, as safe as they could be, and Trish was waiting for him, sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a pair of knickers and an oversized t-shirt. At least, he assumed she was wearing knickers; he could not see them, but she was not in the habit of going without them. She _was _in the habit of lying around half-dressed; she had become something of a free spirit, his Trish, no longer concerned with propriety. It was just another in a long list of things he had learned about her, little details of her personality she had revealed to him, quiet little moments that made him fall more and more in love with her all the time.

"All right?" she asked him quietly, looking up from the book she'd been reading, some nondescript murder mystery of the kind she was always reading.

"Yeah," he answered, but her brow furrowed and she sat up, crossing her legs and closing her book, her expression telling him that she did not believe him in the slightest.

"It's fine, Trish, I'm just tired," he told her, dropping down onto the bed beside her and scrubbing his face with his hands. And he was fine, really; they were in no danger, the boat was quiet, and they would go home tomorrow. Back to the house they shared, back to coffee and breakfast and tea and telly, back to a life that did not belong to them but which he had begun to enjoy, in a twisted sort of way. It was not the work he liked; it was being married to Trish, and her proximity now did nothing to set his fretful mind to rest.

"You're not happy," she said softly. _Christ, _if he thought he knew her it was nothing compared to the way she understood him, the way she could read him with a single glance. "No cameras in here, Wesley. You can talk to me."

He reached out, covered her thigh with his palm. There was nothing untoward in his touch, and she did not recoil from him, only wrapped his hand in her own and held him against her skin. From their very first day on the job they had sought shelter in one another; he had taken her hand in his and looked into her eyes and silently promised to protect her, and from that day to this day he had done his very best to live up to that promise. And she had accepted it, accepted him and his protection and his affection, without hesitation.

_I'm starting to forget, _he thought. _What's real, what isn't. No one has called me by my name in a year. Do you know my name, Trish? Sometimes I think the only thing I want in this world is to hear you say my name. _

"I'm just tired, sweetheart." Such a little word, _sweetheart. _They used such endearments in public often, _honey, babe, sweetheart, _and the habit had carried over to their private life, such as it was. That's why they kept their names a secret; _you can't reveal what you don't know, _the SIS goons had told them. The lines were blurring, between fact and fiction, and he couldn't keep up.

"Let's get some sleep." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she drew in a sharp breath, and quite suddenly Nick felt as if he'd been dropped into a pool of ice water. His heart stuttered in his chest, the breath vanished from his lungs; he was sitting very still on a bed next to a beautiful woman, a woman whose thigh was soft and warm beneath his hand, a woman who was braver, cleverer, more beautiful than any he had known before. And the touch of his lips, a chaste kiss he had bestowed on her more times than he could count, had made her gasp. It was late, and all the world was asleep, and they were _alone, _really, truly, properly alone, for the first time since they'd met. _No cameras in here, _she'd told him. They were adrift, far out to sea, with no one to bear witness to whatever might come next between them. And she knew it, must have known it, must have felt that truth as sharply as he did for when he kissed her cheek she had not smiled and turned away, the way she did in waking life, had not chastised him for taking such a liberty. She had gasped, and now she sat still as a stone, watching him through the thick fan of her eyelashes. The color was high in her cheeks and her full lips were parted and the soft fabric of her shirt brushed his arm with each breath she took.

In that moment he wished more than anything that he knew her name, her true name, that he could whisper it to her now. He could not bring himself to call her _Trish_, not when his heart ached for her, when his hands itched for the warmth of her skin. There was a question in her brilliant eyes, a question he realized quite suddenly that he held the answer to.

"_Sweetheart,"_ he breathed, leaning in closer. Two beers were not enough to make him mad; he was doing this because he wanted to, because he was not sure he would ever have another chance. Slowly, painfully slowly, giving her every chance to back away he leaned closer, and then he closed his eyes, and allowed his lips to brush against hers. Just once, softly, gently, testing the waters, gauging her response. To kiss her now, to run his hand up the length of her thigh and press her back against the mattress would be a mistake, he knew, a violation of about four different regulations and quite possibly an act of treason, but in that moment he didn't care. He wanted _her, _not _Trish, _not the lies, not the legends they'd lost themselves in, but _her_, this beautiful woman whose name he did not know, who mattered more to him than anyone else in the world.

To his delight she kissed him back, her hands rising up to catch in his hair, pulling him in closer, and he responded to her urging at once, kneading her thigh while his tongue brushed passed her lips and she sighed and melted all around him. The kiss did not end; she pushed against him, he pushed against her, lips sliding, catching, holding, her thigh hot as fire beneath his hand. Time lost all sense of meaning, then, as all of his doubts and all of his worries began to slip away. They were neither of them drunk, both of them well aware of what they were doing, the risk they were taking, and diving in anyway. She did not seem to him to be the sort of person who gave herself over to such pleasure without much consideration; she was ambitious, determined, a consummate professional. That she should kiss him with such reckless abandon, touch him so gently now, seemed to him to be the sign that he had been looking for, an indication of the depth of her regard for him.

The last of his doubts fled as she pulled him in close and eased herself down on to the mattress, her head hitting the pillow while her thighs rose up to cradle his hips. Her intent was perfectly clear; she was half naked and wrapped around him, kissing him with everything she had, and he could not help but groan as he ground down against her, the warmth of her, the softness of her threatening to undo him utterly.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed raggedly against her lips. A kiss at the corner of her mouth, and another beneath her jaw, and then his lips were mapping the column of her throat while her hands danced over the slope of his back.

"Do you-" she gasped, arching her back as he found a particularly sensitive spot that made her eyes flutter closed in bliss. "Do you want to stop?"

"I want you," he growled in response. And he did, _Christ _but he did. He wanted to touch her, to see her, to hear her moan in pleasure, to feel her come apart around him, wanted that closeness, that reassurance, wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her go.

"Then _please_ don't stop," she answered breathlessly.

That was enough for Nick. He lifted his head and pressed his lips hard to hers while his hand trailed over the lean muscle of her thigh, reaching around to catch hold of her bum, clutching her hard to him, encouraging her to grind her hips against him and drawing a groan of satisfaction from them both. Even if Hartono had bugged their suite - which Nick sincerely doubted - likely whatever he heard now would only serve to reinforce his belief that they were happily married and enjoying their time on his yacht, and SIS were far away, blind, for once, to what Nick and his Trish were getting up to. They might not ever have another chance like this one, and Nick could not let the opportunity pass him by. She was too beautiful, too wonderful, too brilliant for him to keep his distance, and if nothing else he needed her to know how she had wormed her way beneath his skin, how deeply he cared for her, how utterly she owned him. This might be his only chance, and so Nick gave himself over to her completely, determined to show her with hands and lips and tongue, with every piece of himself, exactly how he felt.

They came together in that place, sweaty and grasping and rocking against each other in rhythm to the gentle movement of the boat until at last they were both of them shattered, spent, elated, relieved. And after they lay together, gasping and loose, Nick's arms around her, her head pillowed on his chest, and his heart broke, just a little, to think he might never experience such joy again.

"This changes things," she breathed, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke.

"No," he answered slowly. "You must know…" his arms tightened around her and she pressed herself a little more firmly against him.

"I know," she whispered.

"I wouldn't care about you any less if we hadn't." _I wouldn't want you any less, wouldn't love you any less, wouldn't find it any easier to let you go._

"I know."

He smiled, though she could not see him, because he knew those words were true. She _did _know, understood exactly what he was trying to tell her, because she understood _him_, better than anyone he'd ever known.

"When this is over," he said, "when we're free. When we get to go home. I want...I want to know your name. I want to find you again."

She lifted her head, gazed down at him with a sorrow in her eyes he felt echoed in his own heart. It didn't matter what he wanted, not really; they would never see one another again, when this over, and he knew it well.

"I know," she told him sadly. And then she kissed him again, and they did not speak for quite some time.


	10. Chapter 10

Jen gradually brought herself under control, stemmed the flood of tears that had poured out of her as at last she spoke the truth, every ounce of grief and frustration and doubt and guilt and worry she had carried in her heart from the moment she first heard Nick's name leaving her exhausted and trembling in his arms. Her legs did not seem to want to hold her, and she could hardly keep her eyes open; having laid herself bare, having laid her burdens at his feet, having at last revealed this truth to him and loosened the bindings of anxiety and dread that had until this moment stayed her tongue, she felt only a bone-deep sense of weariness. Tomorrow, perhaps, she might have cause to hope. Tomorrow she might be calm and collected enough to plan, to find some way through this labyrinth, to sit with Nick and resolve themselves to a course of action that would make them both happy, keep them both in their jobs. Such challenges would have to keep a few hours more, she thought, for she could not face them now.

When at last Nick was satisfied that she was not in imminent danger of collapse he took a step back, but he did not release her entirely; his hands, those broad, strong hands that had traced every line of her body a dozen times, brought her such comfort, such bliss, reached for her face, much as he had done the night before. He cradled her cheeks in his palms, tilted her chin so that she could look him in the eye. He did not smile, then, but he so rarely did, and his eyes were warm and kind as he gazed upon her. Carefully he reached out, smoothed one hand over the tangled mess of her hair, his touch gentle, reassuring,

"I should go," he told her in a low voice.

"Yes," she agreed, somewhat reluctantly. It was for the best, she knew, that he leave her now. They were too tired, the revelation Jen had just made too great, and he would need time to think it over, to make room in his heart for Charlie, to decide what it was he wanted from their future. It was for the best that they both get some rest, away from one another, so that they could tackle the obstacles that waited for them with clear heads. It was for the best, really, that she not push him, that she not let her ragged heart run away from her before she even knew for certain what it was she wanted of him. Logic told her in a hundred different ways that she ought to let him go, but she could not be entirely happy with that decision. They had fallen asleep together every night, in another life, and his arms had soothed her, his touch had promised her that he would always be there beside her when she needed him. The thought of going to bed alone, without such security, was a bitter one.

"Can I come back?"

Jen looked up at him sharply, trying to make out his face in the shadows. On any other man such height, such strength, such single-minded focus might have been intimidating, but the way Nick looked at her now, leaning just a little so he was not towering over her, still touching her so gently, was the very antithesis of frightening. He would never hurt her; she had known that almost from the moment they met, and at every turn he had shown her just how he cared for her, just how considerate, how careful, how gentle he could be. No, Jen did not worry that he would hurt her; she was, however, much less sure of her own impact on him. It had never been her intention to cause him pain, and yet she knew she must have done, knew he must have been hurt, bewildered, asking himself a hundred questions she had yet to answer.

But he wanted to come back. He was not shouting, was not accusing her of anything, had not turned his back on his child and the woman who had kept this secret from him. He wanted to come _back_, and in that moment it took everything Jen had not to ask him to stay.

"Tomorrow?" she suggested. His hands drifted away, slid over her shoulders and then dropped to hang uselessly by his side, and she felt a sudden impulse to reach for him, to reestablish that tenuous connection. He had been brave enough, the night before, moved enough by whatever feelings he harbored for her to take hold of her hand, to chase after her in the night, to kiss her like the world was ending. Nick was not the sort of man who would do such a thing for the sake of a single night of fun; _still waters run deep, _that's what Jen's grandmother used to say, and those words had never suited a man so well as they suited Nick. There was nothing shallow about his affections, and he did not give them away lightly. Perhaps, she thought, if he could be brave, then she could, too.

And so she reached out, and laced her fingers through his own while her question hung in the air between them.

"When?" his voice was low, gravelly with exhaustion, and the sound of it stirred something deep within her heart.

"Breakfast?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly. He was gorgeous, and he had been so bloody kind, so understanding of the choices she had made, and it was late and she was weary, and she wanted -

"8:00?" he asked. Though his feet had not moved it seemed to Jen that somehow he was closer now than he had been, that if she would only lift her chin she could find herself kissing him again, and she found herself wondering if, should she only tighten her hold on him and take that first step, he would follow her back into the house, down the hall, to her bed, would hold her close all through the night and let every ounce of pain inflicted on her in the last four years slowly melt away until all that remained was the simple beauty of _them, _together.

"That would be good," she answered.

This time, he did smile.

"I'll see you at 8:00, Jen." He leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek, but then he was turning away, and she let him, for she knew that she must. _It can wait_, she told herself. Things would look different in the daylight; they could not remain safe in the darkness forever.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning when Nick finally found his way to bed. The day had been a long one, the night longer still. He slipped beneath the sheets and stretched himself out, sighing just a little as the tension eased from his weary limbs, but when he closed his eyes all he could see was Charlie's face. He'd held the boy, for a few minutes, carried him across the floor to the elevator, through the garage until they'd reached Jen's car. He was a such little thing, Charlie, in his dinosaur patterned pajamas, and his hair had been soft when it brushed against Nick's chin. Soft, and dark, and thick, the same shade and texture as Nick's.

_My son, _he thought faintly.

He had told Jen, once, that he had never really thought about having kids, and that was true. He had never seriously considered it, and at nearly forty years old, he hadn't really thought there was any need to. Becoming a father had never been a priority, and he'd never really found a woman he wanted to settle down with, bind himself to in such a way. Until this night, Nick had more or less assumed that the decision was already made, and hadn't spent much time unpicking his own feelings on the matter. He had a job he loved, friends who were almost family, hobbies that kept him entertained, and he had counted himself satisfied.

Now, though, he rather thought the time had come to consider it. It wasn't a question of whether or not he wanted a child; he _had _one, and now that he had seen Charlie's face, cradled the boy in his arms, there was not a piece of him that wanted to undo it. He wanted, very much, to spend time with his son. He wanted to learn what sorts of things Charlie liked, wanted to make him laugh, wanted to take him to matches at the Oval, when he was a bit older. He _wanted _it, wanted to sit on a bench in a park on a sunny afternoon with Jen under his arm, watching Charlie at play. Nick's own father had been a good man, a gentle man, a man who had taught Nick how to fish, whose gnarled hands had shown him how to build a house from the ground up, how to make and mend everything under the sun, whose gruff voice had instilled him a sense of care for other people, a need to accomplish every task put before him with dedication and purpose. One day, years from now, Nick wanted, very much, for Charlie to feel the same way about his old man.

Such dreams had never haunted him before, but now he could not sleep for the visions that danced through his mind. It was Charlie he thought of, mostly, as he tried to come to grips with the responsibility that had just been placed on his shoulders, but he could not keep his thoughts from wandering to Jen. Jen, who he had loved years. Jen, who was the reason - he knew that without question, had known it long before this night - that he had never made a life with another woman. It was completely illogical, he knew, and yet he could not help but feel as if all this time he had been waiting for her. Waiting for Jen, beautiful, brilliant, clever Jen, Jen who made his heart race and his hands itch to hold her, Jen who made him laugh, Jen who understood him better than any other. Over the years he had been paired with a dozen officers - more, probably - but no partner he'd ever had held a candle to Jen. They made a perfect team on the job, and the year they'd spent with SIS had proved they worked well together at home, too. She was everything he had been looking for, and she was here, now.

It would not do, he thought, to tell her such things. She'd been on her own for years, and she was fiercely protective of her son, and he could not fault her for her reticence. But she was the one who had kissed him first, the night before; she was the one who had reached for his hand and told him to come back for breakfast. She was the one, that night on Hartono's yacht, who had pulled him down amongst the pillows and wrapped her legs around his hips. She cared for him, he knew, must have done, for she did not open her arms to another lightly. Still, though, he did not know what it was she expected of him, what she wanted from him now, and he had no intention of overwhelming her with his own desperate longings. For her sake, then, he would have to be patient. He had waited four years for her; he could wait a little while longer.


	11. Chapter 11

"Mummy, no," Charlie grumbled, half-heartedly trying to worm his way out of her grip.

"Yes," Jen answered, doing her best to keep her voice low while also determined not to give into her own exhaustion and Charlie's stubbornness. It would have been so to let him win their little disagreement, but she knew that in the end she would be glad she'd remained firm in her position. Yes, they were only eating breakfast at home, the way they did every day, but this was a very special day, and she was determined to put her best foot forward.

And to that end she had found herself here, sitting on Charlie's bed and trying to wrestle a sleepy, distracted toddler into a fresh change of clothes. Of late Charlie had developed a penchant for stripping off and wandering around the house half-naked, and for the most part Jen let him for she felt, as most mothers do, that she would have to pick her battles, and her energy would be better saved for other endeavors. This morning was different, though. This morning she couldn't let Charlie sit at the breakfast table in just his dinosaur-patterned undies; this would be the day when Nick met their son for the first time, really truly met him, and Jen desperately wanted to get it right. When Nick arrived she wanted Charlie to be clean and happy, wanted Nick to see that his son was safe and well taken care of; oh, likely he'd never doubted it, but still Jen keenly felt the importance of this moment.

"All done," she said, and Charlie was out of her arms like a shot, racing for the kitchen and calling out a demand for pancakes. At least, Jen was fairly sure he'd said _pancakes; _sometimes still the words were too big for him, didn't come out quite right, and she was left trying to puzzle it out. It seemed to Jen that his vocabulary was growing by the day, though, and she remained immensely proud of him. She followed the sound of his voice, gazing around the house as she went, wondering if she had enough time for a quick round of cleaning, wondering if it would be worth the effort. Nick had seen her house the night before, seen the dishes in the sink and the pile of shoes by the door, and besides, he knew already how inconsistent she could be when it came to housekeeping. No, she decided, there was no point.

There was not point to cleaning up, but she had taken her time getting dressed that morning. She'd carefully brushed her hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail, and then spent several minutes deliberating in front of her closet. It wasn't as if this was a date; Nick was coming round for breakfast, coming to see his son, and they had known each other far too long for Jen to be worried about her appearance. He'd seen her in evening wear and pajamas, fresh from the shower and grimy from three days with no sleep and no chance to wash her hair, and still he seemed to care for her. Given the casual nature of their plans she had opted for a soft pair of black, stretchy trousers and a loose white shirt, open at the throat. Nothing fancy, nothing too enticing, but not slovenly, either. It was the best she could do, and she wasn't entirely sure it mattered, anyway.

A surprise was waiting for her in the kitchen; Charlie sat in his accustomed chair, an old, heavy copy of the Oxford English Dictionary serving as a booster seat to lift him high enough to reach the table while his legs swung merrily beneath him. That in itself was not surprising; Charlie would happily sit still and patient if pancakes were to be his reward. What _was _surprising was that Amy was sitting next to him, both of her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, still wearing the clothes she'd left in the night before, with makeup smeared beneath her eyes.

"You're up early," Jen said, making a beeline for the still-warm kettle. It had been after 2:00 when Jen finally fell asleep the night before, and it was nearly 8:00 now. She had expected Amy to sleep for most of the day, and found herself fighting a sudden bout of nerves at the realization that Amy would be present for Nick's visit. That hadn't been her intention; whatever happened next, she desperately did not want an audience.

"Woke up an hour ago," Amy said miserably. "Hungry."

Jen laughed, just a little, as she fixed her tea and Amy moped behind her. In many ways Amy was still so young, and Jen had always felt protective of her little sister. They were very different people; Jen had never been much for clubs and late-night concerts and drinking until the sun came up, but Amy still enjoyed a night out on the town every now and again. It seemed that the years were catching up with Amy, though, as she didn't seem to recover quite as quickly as she had done in the past. No doubt Amy was hungover and suffering mightily for it, and on any other day Jen might have teased her about it. But it was a very special day, and Jen did not want to provoke her sister at the breakfast table.

"Pancakes?" she asked.

"Yes, please," Amy answered forlornly.

"Yes, yes, yes, _please,_" Charlie echoed, and Amy winced visibly at the volume of his response.

Maybe she could have sent Amy away, told her to go to bed, tried to pry the coffee out of her hands and shoo her out of the room, but much as Jen did not want Amy to join them she could not quite bring herself to cast her sister out. They had shared so much, over the years, had become partners in raising Charlie, and Jen had told her from the very first that the house belonged to Amy as much as it did to Jen herself. She would not make her sister feel unwelcome in her own home, but she would have to warn her about Nick's impending arrival, and quickly; 8:00 was fast approaching, and Nick had always been punctual to a fault.

"Hey, Ames," she said as she shuffled through the cabinets in search of the ingredients for their breakfast.

A low groan sounded behind her, evidence that Amy was listening despite her distress.

"Someone is coming over for breakfast."

"Someone coming over?" Charlie repeated.

"Someone's coming over?" Amy asked incredulously.

_It's like living in echo chamber, _Jen thought, exasperated by the chorus behind her.

"Yeah. Nick, from work. You met him last night."

"Did I?" There was a moment of silence while Jen measured out the flour and Amy tried to dredge through her memories. "Tall fella? Quiet? Cute?"

_Cute _was not the word Jen would use to describe Nick, but _tall_ and _quiet_, yes he was both of those things, with a smile that made her heart race still, after all this time, after everything.

"Yeah," she said.

"And he's coming over for breakfast?" There was a sly, insinuating tone to Amy's voice, and Jen knew then that she would have to tell her sister everything, now, before the situation got entirely out of her control. If she didn't speak the truth now Amy would be teasing and insufferable all through breakfast, with a thousand prying questions after, and Jen wanted to avoid such unpleasantness if at all possible.

"Can you come here for a second?"

Nick would arrive any minute and Jen had wanted to be further along with the breakfast preparations when he did. She couldn't afford to take the time to stop what she was doing, but she likewise didn't want to call out the reason for his visit where Charlie could hear her; these were words meant to be spoken in a whisper.

"Come on, Jenny, it hurts to blink, please don't make me stand up," Amy whined.

"Fine," Jen said. _Fine,_ she'd just have to find some way to be discreet about her revelation. "Yes, Nick is coming over. And there's something you need to know." She turned around, bag of sugar still in her hand. This was it; once she told Amy, there would be no going back. She would have released her secret in earnest, and though anxiety wound through her at the very thought, she knew that she must. Nick knew, now, and he deserved to spend as much time with his child as he could, and Jen could not leave her sister in the dark, not after everything Amy had done to help her.

"He's," she glanced quickly at Charlie, relieved to find he was not watching them, and Amy followed her line of sight curiously. "D-A-D," she spelled it out, nodding meaningfully towards her son.

Amy's eyes grew wide and round and her mouth dropped open; it was almost funny, really, the shock written all over her face, to see her actually, literally speechless for once.

"D-A-D," Charlie repeated slowly, getting a feel for sounds, parroting them back with his usual determination.

_Oh, no. _She needed to distract him, and quickly, before he asked what it meant, before he added it to his ever-growing vocabulary; Jen could see it now, Charlie racing around the park or the market, repeating his new favorite phrase while she looked on, helpless to explain why it caused her such distress.

"D-A-D?" Amy asked. "That's...but...Jenny...you said-"

"D-A-D," Charlie had begun to chant. "D-A-D, D-A-D, D-A-D, D-"

And in the midst of the confusion, Amy's stunned disbelief and Charlie's delighted chorus and Jen's own swirling doubts, the doorbell rang.

_Here we go, _she thought.

* * *

Nick lingered on the doorstep, wondering for the tenth time that morning if he should have stopped and bought flowers for Jen. In his experience women liked that sort of thing, and Jen especially; he had surprised her with them a time or two while they were undercover, and when she'd walked back into his life he had made himself a promise that he would do so again. He would find out when her birthday was, that's what he told himself, and she would come in that morning and find flowers on her desk, and she would know at once where they'd come from, what they meant. She always knew.

If this had been a date, if he'd been popping round for a quiet dinner, he would have brought flowers without question. This, though, this was something else. He didn't know quite what this was; in all honesty, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was an interview of sorts. A test, a chance for Jen to determine for herself whether she wanted him hanging around her son. Perhaps that was unkind; Jen had trusted him with her life, and now had finally told him the truth, had looked him in the eye and told him _you were the best man I've ever known. You still are. _He wasn't entirely sure that was true, but Jen believed it, and that would have to be enough.

The door swung open, and he could not help but smile at the sight of her. The clothes she wore were simple, but they suited her lithe figure well; the way she'd pulled back her hair made him long to lean in and trace the line of her jaw with his lips, and there was a smear of flour across one of her cheeks his fingers itched to reach out and brush away. Her expression was somewhat harried, however, and from behind her he could faintly hear the sound of Charlie's voice. That sound resolved itself, after a moment, and he stared at her in confusion as he realized what Charlie was saying.

"D-A-D," his little voice called. "D-A-D, D-A-D, D-"

"Morning," Jen sighed, leaning heavily against the door.

"Morning, Jen," Nick answered at once, offering her a smile he hoped was reassuring. "Everything all right?"

"My sister is here. Amy. You saw her last night?"

Nick nodded to show he understood. At the time he hadn't known the girl was Jen's sister, and in truth he would not have guessed it for they didn't favor one another much, but Jen had just answered one of his many questions. Now he knew who Amy was, why she had been trusted to look after Charlie, and now he knew, too, that Jen had not been completely alone, and he was grateful for that knowledge, glad to know that she'd had the support of her sister, at least, to carry her through.

"I had to tell her why you were coming over. I don't want to lie about this, any more. Not to her."

That he could understand; a secret like this was too heavy to carry alone, and while they had been living as Trish and Wesley it was the lies that had begun to chafe at Jen, the lies that made her so determined to leave that place and never return. He could not fault her, for telling her sister the truth, and he actually felt a bit of relief at knowing he would not have to lie to the girl himself. And he supposed that also explained what he'd heard from the kitchen; Charlie must have overheard Jen and Amy talking, and latched onto the words as small children often do. Somehow Nick didn't think Jen had told the boy outright; Charlie was so young, and their situation was tenuous. _All in good time, _he told himself.

"It's all right, Jen."

"Is it?" she asked. There was such doubt written on her face, and he knew that the same questions that tormented Nick must have settled upon her, as well.

"It is, he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "We'll find our way through."

He believed that, truly, believed that they could accomplish anything together, believed that their future was a hopeful one, believed that nothing in the world could be better than this, holding Jen's hand while their child sat happy and safe in the house behind them.

Jen sighed. "Come on, then," she said. And then, still holding his hand, she turned and led him into the house, towards the kitchen where their son waited for them.


	12. Chapter 12

She let go of his hand as they entered the kitchen, and while Nick could understand her reasons he could not help but regret the loss of her touch. This meeting was as much about her as it was about Charlie, to his mind; _yes, _he wanted to see his son, to get to know the boy, to become a part of his life, but he wanted Jen, too, wanted to rediscover the closeness they had once shared and a hundred new intimacies besides, wanted to touch her, love her, always, wanted the three of them to find their way forward together. He wanted so many things, but this moment called for patience, and so he did not press, did not give voice to all his longings, only followed her lead, content to give her whatever she asked of him.

"Nick, this is my sister Amy," Jen said, gesturing towards the ashen-faced young woman sitting at the table. At first Nick had not noticed her, for his attention had been entirely consumed by Charlie, the thick fall of his dark hair, the wide, open curiosity of his dark eyes. Strange, he thought; looking at that boy was like looking at a picture of himself at that age come to life. Idly he wondered if he ought to ring his mum, and ask for copies of some of those old photos to show to Jen. Would Jen be charmed by them? He wondered. And oh, _C__hrist, _what was he supposed to tell his mother? She'd all but given up hope of him ever settling down with a nice girl and giving his mother the grandchildren she longed for, and he could not imagine how she would react once she discovered the truth. He hoped she would be pleased for him, but somehow he imagined she would not approve of her son leaving that nice girl pregnant and alone, only wandering back into his son's life three years later, quite by accident. _Oh well, _he thought. _That can wait for another day. _

"Amy, this is Nick Buchanan," Jen finished the introductions and drifted towards the counter where it appeared she had been in the midst of preparing their breakfast before Nick's arrival had interrupted her.

"Nice to meet you, Amy," Nick said dutifully, offering her his hand to shake.

"Likewise, Detective Buchanan," Amy answered. Her movements were slow and uncomfortable, and Nick wondered at the oddness of it all until he remembered the brief snippet of conversation he'd overheard the night before. Amy had gone out somewhere, he recalled, and he supposed she'd had a bit too much fun and was paying dearly for it now. He felt a bit sorry for her; he was rather familiar with the condition.

Amy leaned towards Charlie, and ruffled his hair. "Can you say good morning to Nick?" she prompted him gently.

"G'morning," Charlie answered dutifully. He seemed somewhat wary of strangers, but Nick could hardly fault him for that. He was so _little, _still, his face round and soft and sweet as Nick's had been before time took its toll on him. _My son, _he thought faintly.

"Hi, mate," Nick said, a bit thickly.

"Come on then, Detective Buchanan, I won't bite," Amy said, gesturing to the empty chair next to her. "Sit down, it'll be a while before the pancakes are ready."

"Can I help?" Nick asked automatically, turning towards Jen. She had poured all the ingredients into a mixing bowl and was stirring with a single-minded determination, not looking at him, her back straight, her shoulders tense. The morning had been a strange one, but not unpleasantly so, and Nick wanted, very much, to help her, not just with the breakfast things but to help her relax, to help them all grow a bit more comfortable with one another.

"You remember how to fry bacon?" Jen asked. He could not see her face, but he could hear in her voice a tentative smile, could discern in her words an olive branch of sorts being extended. In the old days, the days of their short-lived, would-be marriage, breakfast had been Nick's purview. Jen would make tea - or coffee, depending on the day - and Nick would fry bacon and scramble a pan of eggs, and they would sit together at the heavy wooden table in their make-believe home and eat, and talk, and sip their tea, and for how ever brief a time, they had been allowed a piece of normalcy.

"Of course," he answered, grinning.

He could feel the weight of Amy's gaze on his back as he went to fetch the bacon from the fridge, but he was resolved to pay it no mind. Likely she had a dozen questions she longed to ask, but Charlie's presence stayed her tongue, and Nick was grateful for it. Jen retrieved a pan for him, and as he took up his post by the stove top she handed it to him without a word. In that moment he wanted, very much, to lean down and kiss her. To press his lips against her cheek and tell her again how everything would be all right, to whisper softly how he loved her, how blissfully happy he was to be standing here in this place, with these people who were, in every way that mattered, their family. Remembering his earlier resolution to be patient he kept his kisses and his words to himself, and only smiled at her softly.

The pancake mix was ready, too, and so it was that Jen came to stand beside him, so close that their hips brushed, every now and again, as he focused on one task and she on another, moving comfortably in and around one with an ease borne of practice. They had no need to talk, and in fact Nick was rather grateful for the familiarity of their silence, but the second silence in the room, the one radiating from the table behind them, was deafening, and he sought to ease that tension, wanting only for Jen to be happy.

"So, Amy," he said, loudly enough for her to hear though he did not take his eyes from the bacon, "what do you do for a living?"

"Mostly I look after Charlie," she said. "I needed a cheap place to live and Jenny needed help, it just made sense."

_Jenny needed help. _The words were not quite an accusation, but the implication was there, just the same. No doubt she thought him cruel, or selfish, for having abandoned the mother of his child. Oh, he could not say for certain exactly how Jen had explained the situation, but he knew she could not have told her sister the truth, for they were bound to take their secrets with them to the grave. There was nothing he could say, he realized, no way for him to defend himself, but even as he struggled to come up with a reasonable response Jen reached out and squeezed his forearm once, lightly, as if to console him.

"Amy works with an online program, teaching English to students in Asia," Jen said.

"That's great." There was nothing else Nick could say, and so he rather delicately let the subject drop, focusing all his attention on the task at hand. He did not have much experience in matters such as this, convincing a stranger whose good opinion of him was vital to his future happiness that he was not a deadbeat, but frying bacon was an old familiar skill, and far more pleasant besides.

"So have you known Jenny long, then?" Amy asked after a moment.

Though they were each trying in their own way not to be terribly obvious Nick and Jen both looked at one another then, fear in her eyes and a question in his. It was a pointed sort of inquiry, familiar in nature and tone to Nick and Jen both, who had many long years of experience in interrogating reluctant suspects. Amy knew the most obvious answer already, but she was asking for a deeper sort of detail, prying and poking and hoping her pursuits might bring her to the truth she sought. She had also quite neatly placed Nick on the back foot, for he had no idea how much information Jen had already given her sister, and was loath to spin a lie for her now, not knowing how much to say, not knowing how easily Amy might catch him out.

And once again, Jen saved him.

"We met several years ago, working on an undercover operation. We were assigned to different departments after that. I never thought we'd see each other again."

She tried to hide it, the grief in her voice at the thought, but Nick heard it just the same, for he had felt that grief in his own heart, and he recognized it at once.

"Neither did I," he said, softly, more for Jen's benefit than for Amy's. She offered him a sad little smile, and then went back to the pancakes.

That seemed to be the end of Amy's questions, at least for the moment; she did not speak again except to Charlie, whose little voice did not quite carry to his father's ears. Much as Nick longed to simply sit and stare at the boy he could not deny that this felt rather nice, standing next to Jen at the cooktop, working with her to prepare a meal for all of them to eat together. A simple meal, but a nice one, one that they had both had a hand in making; it was a pleasant way to pass the time.

And over all too quickly. They had stacked the food up as they went, and when it was all finished they turned as one to the table, and laid their offering before Charlie and Amy.

"Pancakes!" Charlie cried with glee as his mother placed one - already cut into smaller pieces - on a plate in front of him. Nick added a few pieces of bacon to the plate but Charlie paid him no mind, shoveling pancake into his mouth and grinning triumphantly all the while. It was a smile Nick could not help but return; he had always been fond of children - quiet children - but Charlie was _his_, and seemed to be such a happy child, and the sight of him called to something deep inside Nick's heart.

"So, Nick, where are you from?" Amy asked him as the grownups began to tuck into their meal as well. "Or should I just wait for Jen to answer that question, too?"

Nick could not tell if the girl was genuinely cross with him, or if she just enjoyed watching him squirm while she asked her questions; somehow, he rather thought it might be both.

"I'm from Geelong, actually," he said evenly. Jen looked somewhat surprised to hear that, and he realized as he looked at her that he'd never actually told her that before. She hadn't known where he grew up, hadn't known anything about his mother or his father or his sisters or how he'd wound up in Melbourne, and he found himself fighting a sudden urge to tell her everything. And to ask her, too, if she was Melbourne born and raised, or if she, like him, had come from somewhere else. He wanted, very much, to hear her story in full.

"And now you're here," Amy said.

"Now I'm here," he agreed.

"Been here a while?"

"Amy, that's enough," Jen said softly, her expression pained.

"It's ok, Jen." Nick wasn't entirely sure why he was defending Amy, except that he knew he did not want to be the cause of any sort of strife between the sisters, and he could see no reason why they could not pass a pleasant morning together. "I've been back for a while," he said to Amy. "They put me on the team while Jen was on secondment, and then they let me stick around after she came back."

Amy opened her mouth to ask another question, but Jen shot her a stern look and did her best to turn the conversation elsewhere.

"Are the pancakes good, bug?" she asked Charlie, reaching out to brush some crumbs from the corner of his mouth with the pad of her thumb.

"Good," Charlie mumbled.

"They are good, Jenny," Amy said, and that was that.

* * *

Carbohydrates and caffeine had done their work, and Amy was feeling altogether more human as they finished their meal. She still had a thousand questions she wanted to ask, but she found herself warming to Nick despite her initial resolution to hate him on principle alone. She _wanted _to hate him, for leaving Jen all alone for all these years, for not being there for Charlie when his son needed him most. She wanted to hate him because it had been half a year since Jen had come home distracted and out of sorts after having met him, half a year of Jen working closely with her son's father and yet keeping this secret to herself, half a year of Nick not coming anywhere near his child. What had taken him so bloody long? Amy couldn't understand it, and she did not want to like the man who had done this to her sister.

And yet, she could not hate him entirely, for Nick Buchanan had turned out to be a thoroughly pleasant man. He was quiet, and polite, and not easily rattled. He was tall, and handsome, and his expression when he looked at Charlie was warm. He had answered what few questions she'd been able to ask, and he had spoken to Jen kindly. Everything about him was likable, appealing in some way, and the way he and Jen spoke to one another, moved together, carried with it a comfortable sort of familiarity that made Amy feel rather out of place. They _knew_ one another, and she was left looking on, confused and hurt and yet understanding, still, that this was not her place. As much as she loved him Charlie was not her son; Nick and Jen had made that child together, and they deserved the chance to be a family, if that was what they wanted.

"It's a beautiful day," Jen said as she rose from her chair and began to gather up their dirty dishes. "Do you want to go outside and play, bug?"

Charlie was on his feet in a moment, jostling eagerly from one foot to the other. "Outside, outside, outside!" he said. He'd been doing that rather a lot, lately, just repeating the same word over and over, but his pronunciation was growing clearer and easier to follow, and it was always a delight to hear his voice.

"Go get your shoes," Jen told him, and he was off like a shot, racing for the pile of shoes by the front door. "Why don't you take him?" she added to Nick, and his eyes went wide and hopeful.

"I can help with the dishes," he said carefully, as if he did not want to appear too eager, did not want to just abandon her to do the washing up alone no matter how he wanted to spend time with Charlie, and Amy liked him all the more for his having made the offer.

"Go," Jen said, smiling at him gently. He returned that same smile, and it looked for a moment as if he might have something more to say, but then Charlie had returned and stolen everyone's attention once more.

"Outside?" he asked hopefully.

"Go on," Jen said. "Nick will go with you."

Charlie looked up at Nick somewhat hesitantly for a moment, but then he reached up with one little hand, and caught hold of Nick's. "Outside," he said, somewhat forcefully.

It was a sweet little scene, even Amy could see that. Nick was looking at Charlie like he'd never seen anything so wonderful in all his life, and Jen looked so happy..._Christ, _she thought, _Jen deserves this. Please, please let her be happy. _

"I'll meet you out there soon. Go," she said, giving Nick a little nudge, and just like that they were walking out the door to the back garden, hand-in-hand, a very tall man and a very small boy who looked as if they had been made together.

The moment the door closed behind them, Amy turned to her sister.

"All right, Jenny," she said seriously. "Tell me everything."

* * *

"Your mum told me you like dinosaurs," Nick said, somewhat awkwardly. Charlie had led him to the back garden and had rather imperiously demanded that Nick sit down on the grass with him, and Nick had complied without protest. There were all sorts of toys scattered about, and at the moment Charlie was occupied with two tiny plastic dump trucks. Nick wasn't really sure what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to do, and all he could think was how furious Jen would be if the moment she left him alone with Charlie the boy somehow found a way to hurt himself. Oh, he was in no immediate danger, sitting happily on the grass in the sunshine, but still, what if he took off running and fell and skinned his knee, or caught his tiny little finger between the trucks he was currently smashing together with glee, or what if it was something else, some little misstep Nick hadn't even imagined? He'd never been wholly responsible for a child, and while he hoped that in time this irrational fear might fade, he could already sense that it would be with him for the rest of his life, the natural concern of a father for his son. He tried to ignore it, tried to remind himself that they were perfectly safe here in the garden, but he was still left feeling out of sorts. What was he supposed to say to a three year old boy? How much could he expect Charlie to understand?

Charlie had heard his question, and paused the dump-truck-derby to offer him a thoughtful look.

"Be right back," he said, and then he was off, racing through the grass to another pile of toys on the other side of the garden. He was back so quickly that Nick had only just risen to his feet when the boy returned, and tugged his hand to pull him back down to the grass.

"T-Rex," Charlie said once Nick was seated again, pushing a small plastic dinosaur into his hands. The boy was watching him expectantly, sitting back on his heels, his dark eyes wide and focused on Nick, and he could not help but smile. This was important to Charlie, he realized; Charlie was sharing something with him, waiting eagerly to see if Nick approved, and he knew that his response would set the tone for the rest of their interaction.

"Wow," he said, softly. "That's really neat, Charlie. Is the T-Rex your favorite?"

He nodded vigorously.

"What sound does a T-Rex make?"

* * *

"There isn't much to tell, really," Jen said in answer to Amy's question. "We worked together. We were assigned to different departments. I didn't think I'd ever see him again. By the time I found out I was pregnant I had no way to contact him, and I thought that was the end of it."

"And then he came back," Amy said slowly.

"And then he came back," Jen agreed, keeping her eyes focused on the pan she was currently scrubbing, and not her sister's pitying expression. Breakfast had gone better than she'd hoped - once she managed to put a stop to Amy's interrogation - and there had been no sounds of distress from the back garden, and she had chosen to be thankful for small mercies. Amy wasn't angry with her, Jen could tell that by the tone of her voice; she was only worried about her sister, and Jen supposed she could understand that, given the circumstances.

"But it's been months. Why is he only coming here now?"

Jen sighed, just a little, and handed the now-clean pan to Amy to dry. "Because he only found out about Charlie last night."

"Oh, Jenny," Amy said heavily, and Jen knew then that she had understood, that Amy knew it was Jen, and not Nick, who'd kept him away for so long. Jen had her reasons for having made that choice, but even she knew they were feeble, and so she did not share them.

"He's a good man, Amy. He wants to do the right thing."

"Do the right thing," Amy repeated. "What does that even mean?"

Jen stared hard at the pan in her hands, trying her very best not to cry.

"I wish I knew," she said.

After that there was only silence; Jen's heart was heavy, and it seemed that Amy was content with the answers she'd been given. _What does that even mean? _Jen had asked herself that same question a dozen times in as many hours. What would _doing the right thing_ mean for her, for Charlie, for Nick, for their future? Would he offer her money, come round on Saturdays to kick the football around with his son for an hour or two and then go back to his own separate life? Or was there something more, something else he wanted? He'd kissed her so passionately the night before he'd first seen Charlie; he'd wanted _her_ then, she knew. Would he want her still, knowing that being with her, loving her, was a package deal, that he could not have her without Charlie? Would it matter to him, or would it only make him want her more? And what did she want, truly? A happy family, all three of them together?

Though she was not entirely ready to face it, she knew in her heart she had already found the answer to that particular question.

"Come on, then," she said as the last of the plates was dried and stacked away. "Let's go see how they're getting on."

And so she and Amy trooped out into the sunlit garden together, and she could not help but laugh at the scene that waited for her there. Nick was on his back on the grass, and Charlie was crawling all over him, growling in what Jen assumed was a fair imitation of his favorite dinosaur, pretending to maul his father while Nick submitted to the onslaught with a cheerful heart.

"What's this, then?" Jen called, and he tilted his head back to smile up at her.

"Mummy's here, Charlie," he said, but their son ignored him completely, still growling and tugging at Nick's shirt with his little hands. "Mummy, you have to help me," Nick called to her. "I'm being eaten by a T-Rex. Save me, please."

Jen moved into action at once, scooping her squirming son into her arms and covering his face with kisses while his growls dissolved into peals of laughter. At her feet Nick pulled himself into a sitting position, and reached out, clasped her calf in his hand and looked up at her with joy written all over his face.

"Thank you, mummy," he said softly.


	13. Chapter 13

"Thank you, Jen," Nick said warmly, his voice low and soft and designed not to carry past her ears.

Despite herself Jen blushed, just a little, unable to return his gentle gaze for the flutter of nerves in her belly. The day had gone wonderfully, beautifully, better than she could ever have imagined. They had spent most of the morning sitting outside on the grass in a dappled haze of warm sunshine, Charlie toddling back and forth, happy and surrounded by people who loved him. Nick had stayed for lunch, had cheerfully helped with the washing up, had smiled when she offered him a cup of tea. Charlie and Amy had fallen asleep in a heap on the sofa in front of the telly, and now Jen's mug was nearly empty, and somehow it seemed as if she and Nick were the only people awake in the whole world, as if everyone had settled down for an afternoon nap and allowed her this one blissful moment to sit quietly with the man she loved without any interruptions or worries.

"Thank you for coming," she told him earnestly, reaching out on impulse to cover one of his broad hands with her own. She meant those words; she was grateful to him for his willingness - eagerness, even - to see Charlie, to spend time with him, grateful for the tender, almost awe-struck way he treated the boy, grateful that he had not spurned her or scorned her or shouted at her, cursed her for keeping this secret from him, for changing the course of his life so irreversibly.

At the touch of her hand his eyes widened slightly; he was such a guarded man, her Nick, and his emotions revealed themselves in the smallest of ways. Always he kept his thoughts and his opinions to himself unless invited to make a judgement, and even then his words were carefully measured. His face did not give much away; his smiles were soft and fleeting and infrequent. Except with her, she'd found. During the year they'd spent undercover she had learned to read him, or perhaps he had allowed himself to be more expressive with her, or perhaps it was some combination of the two, but by the end of their time together it seemed to Jen that he could communicate a world of meaning to her with just a glance. Working with him on homicide had been eye opening, in that regard; she had never before had cause to watch him closely while working and interacting with people he cared about, people he trusted, and she had been somewhat surprised by the depth of his reserve, the way no one else seemed to have clicked with him quite the way she had. Oh, they all liked him, liked him well, put their faith in him, but it seemed to her that none of them understood him. Because he had not let them, she knew, because he had not shared his bed and his life with any of them, except for her. His smiles, his quiet counsel, his frustrations; these things he offered to her, and no one else. And no matter how she might try to avoid it, Jen knew the reason why.

"I mean it, Jennifer," he said seriously, watching her face intently. "Charlie is a wonderful little boy, and that's because of you. I know it hasn't been easy for you," he added, and as he did she dropped her eyes down to her mostly-empty teacup. She did not want to look at him, his warm, beautiful face, while she thought of how she had struggled, how she had wept, the loneliness that had dragged her under and the simple, desperate way she'd missed him during the long years of their separation. She did not want to think about the long days right after she'd discovered her pregnancy, when she'd struggled with the question of what to do about it. It hadn't been an easy choice, knowing she would be alone, that her career would be on hold while she was out on leave, that her personal responsibilities might permanently hold her back professionally as she could not be as flexible as other officers who weren't raising up a baby on their own. She'd worried about her finances, and what her mother might say, and wondered how she'd ever find a man while she had someone else's baby at home. But then she'd thought, too, how wonderful Nick - Wesley, then - had been, how deeply she had cared for him, how she might a love a child who shared his face. She'd thought about the quiet dream she'd harbored in her heart for many a long year, the dream of one day having a child of her own to hold, and wondered if she'd ever have another chance. For days she had struggled with it, and in the end she had made her choice, and she was glad of it.

"I never expected this," he continued, and her gaze shot up to his face at once, despite the feeble protests of her fragile heart; she wanted to see him, wanted to see if there was any sign on his face of doubt or displeasure, but all she found when she looked at him now was a quiet sort of wonder. "But I'm so...grateful, Jen. I'm glad he's here. I'm glad I have the chance to know him."

"Me, too," she answered, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "I'm glad you're here."

And she was, truly, glad that Nick had come. Glad that the truth had finally been laid bare, glad that now there was a chance for Charlie to grow up spending time with his father, not resenting the absence of the man who should have been there for him all along. She was so glad that Nick was here, in her home, holding her hand, sharing her tea and her time, not running away but determined for them to find a way forward, together.

"I want to come back," he said eventually, leaning back in his chair. He kept his hand on the table, and she held on to it, delighting in the warmth of his skin pressed against her own. "I want to see him again."

"Of course," she answered at once. "I don't want to keep you away from him. You're always welcome here, Nick." And he was, welcome, always, any time or any way he chose, for Jen's heart had never felt quite as peaceful as it did when he was near, for he clearly loved their son and she wanted to foster a good relationship between the two of them, because he was quite the dearest man in all the world, and she wanted him with her, always.

"And I want to take you out to dinner," he added, watching her intently.

Jen's breath caught in her throat, her heart suddenly racing, but Nick just watched her, silent and steady and still, waiting to see how she might respond. This she had not expected, somehow; everything seemed so complicated, and she never anticipated such a direct overture from him. She had thought they would take things slowly between them, focus on Charlie and not the tangled mess of their own hearts, that they would continue to put their professional obligations above their personal desires. And yet he had just gone and asked her on a date, as calmly as if nothing was amiss, as if there would be no consequences should they set out on such a foolhardy course.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; _what about work? _She asked herself, suddenly panicked. Hiding Nick's connection to Charlie was one thing, but hiding a personal relationship was something else altogether. It would mean lying - or at the very least obfuscating the truth - to the people who trusted them with their very lives. _And what about Charlie? _What would happen should they fall in together, only to fall apart a short while later? She couldn't bear it, if Charlie grew fond of Nick and then some lover's quarrel sent him away, and left their son wondering where he'd gone.

"Jen," there was a warning note to his tone, as if he could hear the thoughts that tumbled through her mind and disapproved of her somewhat pessimistic interpretation of the situation.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she answered, wishing it were not so, wishing she could give him everything he asked for and more besides, all of herself. _Oh, _she wished it, but she could only envision things ending badly for both of them.

"Please," he said softly. "You know how I feel about you." _Do I? _She wondered. She knew what she hoped, what she sometimes suspected, but he had not said -

"And I felt that way before I even knew about Charlie. Seeing him now, watching the two of you together...we've missed out on so much, Jennifer. We've lost so much time. Don't you think we deserve this?"

"But what about the job?"

"Bugger the job," he said, and her heart leapt in her chest from fear as much as anything else; his tone was deadly serious and she knew he was being sincere, but she did not want to even consider going to work and not seeing his face every day. It was such a joy, working with him, having him there for her, a partner in every way, and she did not want to lose that closeness. "I'll request a transfer tomorrow if that would make you feel better."

And what was she supposed to say to that? He was offering her everything, offering to throw away his promising career and shunt himself to some other, lesser department, to miss opportunities for advancement and growth that would follow him for the rest of his professional life, offering all of this for the sake of her comfort while she sat fretting, wondering if they even had a future together. How could she let him make such a sacrifice when she did not even know if they would be together six months from now?

"You can't do that," she told him softly, sadly.

"I can't do this, either," he fired back. "I can't see you every day and not be able to touch you." Those words sent a shiver racing down her spine, despite her distress; his voice was low but full of heat and for a moment her mind was clouded with memories of his hands, reverent against her skin. "I can't keep pretending there's nothing between us."

"You can't risk your career for me."

"You're worth the risk."

Jen fought the urge to grind her teeth in frustration. It was tempting, so tempting, the offer he had extended her, the thought of having him both at work and at home, not having to choose. He was dangling everything she'd ever wanted in front of her, clearly unconcerned with the potential for damage inherent in their falling in together, and so it would be up to her to be the voice of reason. She didn't want to be reasonable, though; she wanted Nick, all of him, always.

"What are we gonna do, Nick?" she asked, somewhat plaintively. There did not seem to be a way forward that would not wound them in some way, and she was finding it hard to locate the hope that had filled her earlier in the day.

Very slowly Nick rose from his chair, still holding her hand, and drew her to her feet. Ever so gently he ran his hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her face, his expression soft and warm, as if her obvious doubts about their future had done nothing to quell his fondness for her.

"Look at me," he said in a low voice, leaning down close to her. "Look at me, and tell me you don't want us to be together."

Even though she knew it was folly, knew she would be lost the moment she looked into his soft dark eyes, she could not help but answer his gentle command. She gazed up at him, and felt all the fight leave her at once. Yes, there were questions still to answer. Yes, things might go terribly wrong. But they had been circling ever closer to one another for months now, and she had kissed him, and he had kissed her back, and they had spent the morning playing with their son, and she _wanted…_

"I want this," she whispered brokenly. _I want you. _A great weight seemed to settle on her shoulders as she spoke, as she allowed herself to take this chance; it was such a risk, and she wasn't entirely sure she was making the right choice, but she could not ignore the clamoring of her heart a moment longer. Nick wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close, and she melted against him, gave herself over to the heat and the longing that threatened to undo her utterly.

"Let me take you out to dinner, Jen," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Let me be here for you. We don't have to decide everything right now." Another kiss, this time on the rise of her cheek. "We can just see where this goes. Give us this chance."

"All right," she answered, giving in at last. "All right."

He smiled at her then, a bright, wide smile she had only seen from him a time or two before, and then he bowed his head, and she rose up on her toes to meet him, wound her arms around his neck and kissed him softly there in the quiet stillness of her kitchen. Maybe it was foolish, reckless, shortsighted of them to take such a chance, to risk their careers and their son's happiness for the gossamer threads of desire and affection that bound them together, but Nick was right. It was worth the risk. _They _were worth the risk.


	14. Chapter 14

The weekend was like something from a dream; Nick was lovelier than words could describe, had surpassed her every expectation in that quiet, steady way he had, had kissed her so gently her heart ached to remember it. Charlie had been happy, and in her arms, and they had all of them laughed together, enjoyed a rare moment of peace. A vision of things to come, perhaps; at least, that's what she told herself. _This can work, _she'd told herself with some conviction, more than once over those two days. _We can have this. _She _wanted _it, wanted the three of them together, wanted Nick's arms around her, wanted his kisses and his quiet promises. She wanted to believe him, when he told her _you're worth the risk, _wanted to believe she could somehow have both, Nick at home and Nick at work, wanted to believe that Nick could be the father Charlie deserved, the lover she'd always wanted. And for those two days, it had felt to Jen as if everything she wanted was within reach.

But then Monday morning arrived, the way it inevitably must. She'd left Charlie and Amy eating breakfast at the kitchen table in their pajamas, and taken herself off to the station, and with each passing moment she'd felt that dream trickling like water through her fingers, evaporating into nothingness beneath the rising sun, beneath the reality of her situation.

Nick had offered to take her to dinner, and she had accepted, and she fully intended to go through with it, but her resolve to _see where this goes, _as Nick had said, did nothing to quell her doubts. For a time Nick's gentle hands had silenced the nagging voice in the back of her mind, but he could not touch her today as he had done the last time he saw her, could not hold her hand or press his lips to the corner of her mouth, and without his reassurances every unanswered question gnawed away at her. _One thing at a time, _she tried to tell that anxious voice. _Wait and see._

She would go into work, she would dig into her caseload, she would talk to the boys, she would go home again; these things she had done a thousand times before. Nick would be there, but then he always was, and if they were to really try to make a go of it this day would be something of a test, she supposed, a means to evaluate their skills at obfuscation, to see if there was any chance they could carry on a personal relationship without alerting everyone at the office. It seemed to Jen that if they could get through this day, perhaps the next would be easier, and the one after that easier still; perhaps, she tried to tell her anxious conscience, with time they would find their way.

The moment she stepped off the elevator she found Nick, standing by his desk, deep in conversation with Matt. He looked handsome in his dark navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the muscles of his forearms, but then again he always looked handsome to her mind. They had been working together for months now, she reminded herself, and he was no more attractive today than he had been the week before, even if the last time she'd seen him he'd kissed her deeply, those strong arms wrapped tight around her. There was no need to treat him any differently today, and yet as she approached the pair of them, a friendly smile plastered on her face, she found herself suddenly at a loss for words; she should be natural, calm, the same today as any other day, but in the moment she felt as if she'd forgotten how to _be_, as if no matter what she chose to say she must surely give the game away.

"Morning," Nick said softly as she reached her desk and dropped her handbag on it. His voice was warm, his expression kind, and Jen could not help but melt, just a little, at the sight of his face. _One thing at a time, _she told herself, yet again.

"Morning," she answered.

"All right, Jen?" Matt asked cheerfully. "Have a good weekend?"

"Yeah," she answered, smiling. "It was nice. Quiet. You?"

"Yeah, it was all right. Talked to Dunny. They're making him take this week off and he's climbing the walls already."

_Christ, _somehow Jen had forgotten that Duncan had been shot the previous Friday. It seemed a lifetime ago, the operation that had thrown them all into this mess, the circumstances that had led to Charlie's arrival at the station in the first place. So much had changed, in such a short time; Nick had kissed her, and found out about his son, and come to her house and spent time with Charlie, and kissed her again, invited her out on a date, and it had all happened so quickly her mind was still reeling, just a little bit, trying desperately to catch up.

"Poor bugger," Nick said, but his heart wasn't in it; his eyes were distant, and Jen couldn't help but wonder if the same thoughts were occupying him as well.

"A little rest and relaxation will be good for him," Jen said decisively. "Now. Who wants coffee?"

* * *

She looked so beautiful.

Nick knew he had no business thinking such things, knew he could not afford to spend his quiet moments studying the curve of her neck, the rise of her cheek, cataloging every place he longed to kiss her, hoped to kiss her soon, if fate was kind. He shouldn't be thinking about the cut of her trousers, and the way they made him yearn more than anything to reach out and catch her by the hips, draw her into him, run his hands over her ass until they were both ragged and wrecked. No, he should be focused, but the report in front of him held no appeal, not compared to Jen's golden hair and her soft skin and her cheeky smiles.

Part of him knew she was right to be so worried. If anyone found out that he was Charlie's father they would both catch hell for it; one of them would be transferred out, at the very least. He wouldn't put it past the brass to knock both of them back out of sheer pique. The rules were clear, and he and Jen had committed a serious infraction in not disclosing their prior relationship. But then again, they could hardly have told the truth; they had both taken solemn oaths, sworn to take the secret of their time with SIS with them to the grave. SIS demanded silence, but offered no protection. That was the nature of the spooks, he'd found; they took everything from their pawns, and gave nothing in return.

But they'd made it this far. That was a comfort to Nick, in a way; they'd managed to hide their feelings for one another for months, and Jen had likewise managed to keep Charlie a secret from him for all that time, and if nothing else, their time undercover had made them both consummate liars. They'd survived that operation with their legends in tact; surely, he thought, they could make it a little while longer, hiding the truth from their colleagues.

But to what end? Nick knew he wanted, very much, to be a part of his son's life. Having met the boy, having spent time with him, Nick knew already he could not give Charlie up. No matter what happened next, he was determined to be there for his son. And Jen, too; _Christ_, he wanted Jen. He'd kissed her before he even knew about Charlie, had already found himself on the cusp of throwing everything away for the chance to be with her. But what would that mean for them? Would he be satisfied with the occasional casual date, falling into bed with her as and when they could, but driving in to work separately in the morning? Was that all that waited for them, just a low stakes, secret affair? What he wanted, more than anything, was to be _with_ her, and he could not imagine a time when that might change. But if they were to make a go of it, to really give their all to one another, to be a _family, _things would inevitably have to change. Nick had no problem hiding a casual shag from his coworkers, but he would not dream of keeping his wife a secret.

As that thought flitted through his mind his gaze settled more firmly on Jen.

_You're getting ahead of yourself,_ he thought grimly. It was hard, he found, to separate what _was_ from what _had been. _Jen had been his wife once, after a fashion, and he knew already that they were good together, good in bed, good at sharing the responsibilities of a home, good at making one another happy. Everything was muddled up, backwards in his mind; they'd been married before they slept together, but they'd never actually dated, and they'd spent so long apart. He rather felt as if they'd missed a step somewhere, as if it were wrong for his mind to jump straight to marriage before he'd ever even taken her out to dinner. Maybe this was their chance, he told himself. Maybe this was the opportunity they needed to do everything in the right order, for a change. A kiss, a dinner, a drink, and then bed, and then, later, somewhere down the road when a respectable amount of time had passed, when Jen was feeling more sure of herself, more confident in their relationship, maybe then he could circle back to thoughts of marriage. To mention it now, he knew, would be to send her running for cover.

"You're staring at me," Jen murmured. She had not lifted her gaze from the file she was reviewing, but she had caught him just the same, and Nick ducked his head, averting his eyes at once.

"Sorry," he answered, his voice as quiet as hers had been.

"You've got to be more discrete." Perhaps she had meant the words to come out lighthearted, but she only sounded scared. Nick looked up, cast his eyes around quickly to be sure no one was close enough to overhear him, and then he took a calculated risk.

"It's not my fault you're beautiful," he said.

Her cheeks went pink at his praise but she did not smile or shift her gaze away from the file in front of her, and his heart sank like a stone. It would seem that was one gamble that hadn't paid off.

"If this is going to work," she said slowly, turning a page in the file as if it consumed her attention utterly, "you can't say things like to me at work. This is important, Nick."

"You're right," he answered at once, wishing it weren't so and yet knowing it just the same. "I'm sorry."

Their little exchange had gone entirely unnoticed by anyone else, and Nick tried to turn his focus back on his work. She was right, of course; she always was. He wanted to tease her, wanted to touch her, wanted to see her smile, but he could not take such a risk while they sat together at their desks. It had been foolish, really, to have said such a thing in the first place, but in the moment he had _wanted_ to, had wanted her to know that she was beautiful to him, always, that he was thinking of her. And in that moment, he realized that keeping his feelings for her a secret was going to be much, much harder than he'd ever anticipated.

* * *

_It's not my fault you're beautiful. _

That man was going to ruin her, Jen was certain, because much as she wished he'd just kept his mouth shut she could not deny how grateful she was to know that he was just as affected by their rapidly evolving relationship as was she. Jen had not found the courage to tell him how handsome he looked that morning, how well his dark navy shirt suited him, how distracted she had been by his presence from the moment she walked in the door, but Nick had no such qualms. Of course he was braver than she had been; he always was. Nick was the risk-taker, the one willing to put everything on the line, and though she had known in the moment that she had no choice but to chastise him, she had envied him his confidence, just a little.

The call came in just after lunch, a new case that would take them both out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. There was nothing unusual about that; they were paired together often, and since cases were assigned based on availability, it only made sense that their number came up at the same time. And while Jen would never be grateful for a murder, for death and violence and another broken family, the chance to get out of the office, away from the prying eyes of their team, was something of a blessing.

Nick drove; it wasn't a question. He always did. If she were paired with Matt or Dunny she'd give the boys shit for it, tease them about how their egos were too fragile to allow a woman to drive them around, but with Nick it just made sense. She trusted him, adored him, and she very much appreciated the chance to sit quietly beside him, to lean her head back and take her eyes off the road. As he maneuvered the car towards their destination she found herself mulling over a question that had been bothering her for most of the day, and it suddenly occurred to her that she would never have a better opportunity to give it voice.

"Nick?" she said quietly.

He hummed to show that he was listening, though his gaze remained fixed straight ahead.

"You aren't just doing this because of Charlie, are you?"

She felt small, pitiful for even asking, but she had to know. Things were happening so quickly, and he had gone from respecting their boundaries to asking her to dinner in the course of a single day. The thought that he was only interested in her as the mother of his child, that he was only pursuing her because it was the _right thing _troubled her more than she could say.

And it did not help matters much that Nick laughed aloud when she asked her question, but he reached out and took her hand, lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss against her palm before lacing their fingers together and bringing their hands to rest against his thigh, and that gesture quieted her distress somewhat.

"I kissed you on Thursday night, remember?" he told her gently. "Before I'd ever even seen Charlie. We were sitting in that bar, and we were talking, and I realized…"

His voice trailed off, but Jen was eager to hear the rest of it, and in no mood to wait.

"Realized what?"

"That I wanted you more than the job. That you were worth the risk. That I would have to be stupid to just let you go."

For a moment Jen sat in a stunned sort of silence. At the time it had all seemed so natural, and she had thought it was her kiss there in the car that had caused him to go chasing after her. But he was right, she realized; he hadn't let her take a cab home, had insisted on driving her back to her house, had caught her face in his hands and pulled her in close. He'd whispered _I've got you, _and she knew that what he'd meant that night was _I love you. _It all became so clear, in that moment; he'd already made up his mind, already begun to chase her, before Charlie had come bursting on the scene.

"And now that I know about Charlie," he added, and she held her breath, wondering where this was headed, "I can't think of a single reason not to give us a chance. I want you, Jen. I wanted you four years ago, and I wanted you that night in Matt's kitchen, and I wanted you last week. I want _you, _and I want to be Charlie's dad. I want both."

"Me, too," Jen whispered, somewhat thunderstruck by the sincerity of his tone, but the depth of her own feelings on the matter. "I want that, too."


	15. Chapter 15

"What did you tell them about Charlie?" Nick asked carefully.

He hated to do it. He hated to raise such a question here, now, when things had been going so well. It had taken them a fortnight to get to this point, to find an evening when neither of them was too busy with work - or too exhausted from it - when Amy's schedule permitted, and Nick's heart had been full of a cautious, quiet hope. At six o'clock he had driven to Jen's little house, had been welcomed inside by her sister, had spent a few moments playing with Charlie and a pile of plastic dinosaurs, and then Jen had stepped into view, and he'd nearly swallowed his own tongue. The restaurant they'd settled on for their dinner - their first real date, and how he loved the very thought of it - was casual and out of the way, and Jen had dressed accordingly. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans that hugged her body like a second skin, and a shimmery black top that showed off her toned arms and just the slightest hint of her cleavage. Her hair was soft and hanging in gentle waves around her face, and the moment he locked on eyes on her Nick felt himself fall in love with her all over again. Never in his life had Nick ever felt anything like it, the desire, the affection, the yearning, the fierce urge to protect her, the need to make her smile that she inspired in him, and the thought that this woman, this brilliant, beautiful woman, was not only going on a date with him but also already the mother of his child had been nearly enough to bring him to his knees. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn such a blessing, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her time, her affection, her love.

As they first sat down to their meal he had worried, briefly, that things might be awkward between them, but they had navigated all sort of unpleasantness together in the past, and any discomfort either of them might have felt in the beginning quickly faded into nothingness. They talked a little about Nick's family - _I didn't know you were from Geelong, _Jen had told him, smiling - and a little bit about Amy, and the conversation had drifted, inevitably, toward work. Nick had hoped to avoid such discussions if at all possible; after all, this was not meant to be a friendly meal amongst coworkers. But now that the subject had come up, he had felt compelled to ask, knowing that much as he might not like it he would need to know the details of the backstory Jen had prepared for herself in order to respect her wishes and maintain the status quo. For now.

Jen sighed, her smile fading. "Not much," she said. "I joined homicide when I came back from maternity leave. Dunny had been injured and they needed someone to fill in, and then Sparksey kept me on. I couldn't very well hide him from them."

"You hid him from me," Nick pointed out. He regretted the words the moment he spoke them; Jen's brow furrowed, and a whole host of emotions he had been trying to ignore came welling up inside him. Of course he understood the reasons why she'd done it, of course he knew now that it had been necessary, that he could not fault her for keeping her secrets as long as she had, but still, it wounded him, to know that it had taken him so long to earn her trust, that in fact it was a simple turn of fate that revealed the truth to him rather than Jen's own desire for honesty.

"It's different now," she said. "It was harder, when he was little." Charlie was still little, as far as Nick was concerned, but he had not been there for the birth of his son, had not seen him take his first steps, speak his first words, had not held the boy in his arms when he was still an infant. There was so much he had missed, but those thoughts, too, he tried to push aside. Nick had not been there when Charlie was little, but he was here now, and he did not want to miss a thing.

"What did you tell them about his father?" That was what Nick really wanted - needed - to know, after all, and he did not want to linger over Jen's perceived transgression or his own failings.

"I told Matt that I'd been seeing someone, and that he died. Matt took care of the rest. I think in the beginning he wanted to protect me. I don't know what he said to Simon and Dunny but they never asked me about Charlie's father."

For a long moment Nick sat in silence, thinking over what she'd told him and all its many implications. Her story was a good one, under the circumstances; female coppers, in his experience, tended to keep their romantic tanglings a secret, a means of defense against the endless teasing of the old boys club. It would not have come as a shock to anyone to find out that she'd had a boyfriend she had not discussed; it happened all the time. And to say that Charlie's father was dead made sense, as well. There would be no questions about what he did, where he was, whether Jen wanted one of her friends to go knock some sense into him, the deadbeat. There would be hardly any questions at all, for while they were a rambunctious lot they were all well aware that some things were best left alone, and a dead partner was not a topic anyone would approach willingly. And if it grieved him, to think of Jen all alone, forced to tell such a lie, to think that she had carried this burden while he had continued living his life as if nothing were amiss, he supposed that was to be expected. That Matt had felt protective of Jen was worrying, in a way; Nick had noticed the same, more than once, during the months since he'd come back. It was Matt, after all, who had tried to warn Nick off her, Matt who sometimes caught them speaking quietly to one another and tensed as if he did not entirely approve. It was Matt whose gaze followed Jen around the station, mooning discreetly - though not so discreetly that it escaped Nick's notice. If anyone was going to give him trouble when the truth came out as he felt it eventually must, he thought it would be Matt.

"I had to tell them something," she added, watching him closely. "I couldn't very well tell them the truth."

"No," Nick said, offering her a little smile, to show that he understood. "I know you couldn't."

"And I don't want to tell them now," she finished decisively.

"You don't have to," Nick assured her. "We said we'd see where this goes, Jen. I'm not asking you to put your career in jeopardy." And nor was he risking his own, just yet. He had offered, somewhat impulsively, to request a transfer, and if that was what Jen needed in order to feel comfortable with their developing relationship, he'd give it to her. He didn't relish the thought of stepping away from homicide; oh, he could sit the sergeant's exam and then go to work for another department, could keep his career moving forward, but homicide was where he wanted to be. Those were the big cases, the tough cases, the cases that mattered most, and he liked his team and his work. He _liked_ his work, and he didn't want to lose it, but he _loved_ Jen and Charlie, and he knew already what mattered most to him. If he needed to, he would step aside with grace. If it ever came to that. If Jen ever let him in.

Her expression had softened somewhat as he spoke, as if his words had been enough to reassure her, and she reached across the table then, and covered his hand with her own.

"Thank you," she said, grey eyes sparkling. "I spent so much time worrying about how you were going to react and you've been...you've been wonderful."

_I love you, _he thought. In that moment, he very much wanted to tell her so. He had fallen for her, hard and fast, in another life, and these last few months, spending so much time with her, getting to know her all over again without the constant surveillance of SIS, without the need to hide anything from her, had left him wrecked with longing for her. She was everything he had ever wanted, strong and brave but possessed of a gentle heart, certain of herself and her path in life, a partner to him in every sense of the word, and he wanted, very much, to break down the last of the walls between them, to hold her the way he used to.

But he could not tell her, not now, not yet, not when she remained so uncertain, when the path ahead was not yet clear, and so he only lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently.

* * *

In the beginning Jen had been a bit nervous about this whole affair, about going on a date with Nick, about allowing them to spend time alone together outside of work, but he had been the perfect gentleman, and every moment she spent in his company seemed only to set her fears at rest. Dinner had been lovely, the conversation flowing easily between them, and she knew she really shouldn't have been surprised by that. Before he had been anything else Nick had been her friend; he was funny, and sincere, and they had so many things in common. Not just the work that they did, but the way they saw the world and understood their place in it. They talked about his family, and hers, talked about the endless renovations on his home - _you'll have to come see it sometime, _he'd told her in a soft voice, and her heart had raced at the very thought of being alone in his home, with him - talked about the book she was reading and Charlie and work and it all felt so natural, so right, that by the time Nick pulled his ute up to the curb outside her house she was thinking, very seriously, of inviting him inside.

"Let me walk you to the door," he murmured before she'd had the chance to speak, and so she followed his lead, let him open the door for her, took his hand when he offered it and laced their fingers together as they walked up the path to her low front porch.

It was too soon, she knew, to invite him inside. The sun had gone down but it was early yet; Amy was probably even now sitting on the sofa, watching telly. Jen was fairly certain she'd die of embarrassment if she had to face her sister before leading Nick down the hall toward her bed. And even if Amy were nowhere in sight there was still Charlie to think about; she didn't want to have to explain Nick's presence in the house come morning, and likewise she did not want to send Nick sneaking off into the night as if she were ashamed of him. One date, one beautiful night, was not enough to take such a risk, no matter how much she might want to.

And Nick seemed to understand, for as they reached the porch he let his hands fall to her hips, stood close and warm with his head bowed low towards her own, but he did not press for anything more than that delicious proximity.

"I'm glad we did this," he said. Jen was hardly listening; those strong hands, curled tight around her, brought to mind a hundred beautiful memories, and she hungered for everything they promised her, if only she were brave enough to accept it. To accept him.

"We'll have to do it again," she told him breathlessly.

In the faint glow of the porch light Nick grinned, and leaned in to brush a kiss against her cheek. "We'll have to do it often," he agreed.

It was one of those moments in which everything she'd ever wanted seemed to hang in the balance. They were both tense, hardly breathing, frozen in one another's arms, and she could almost feel his thoughts racing alongside her own. They were so close, but Nick would not move to kiss her without some sign from her, she knew. Always he had waited for her, had cared for her too much to force her into something she was not ready for. And while a part of her wished that he would just do it, take the decision out of her hands and save her the agony of making the choice herself, a much larger part of her was grateful for his respect, his kindness, his concern. He was so close, so very close, and she wanted him so much, and the choice was hers.

And so Jen took a deep breath and lifted herself onto her toes, and pressed her lips against his own.

It started soft, and sweet, a gentle sort of kiss, neither of them sure really how far they could be allowed to go, what the other wanted from them. But then she sighed against his mouth and his tongue surged past her lips, and all hesitancy was lost; Jen wrapped her arms around his neck and Nick pulled her body hard against him, and then she was falling, drowning, flying. No one had ever kissed her quite like this, and the memories came rushing back; the first time she'd held him on Hartono's boat, the half a dozen times they'd fallen together eager and desperate in the shower of their pretend home, the last time she'd ever seen him, and the mark he'd left against the curve of her breast, neither of them knowing that he had already given her a much more permanent reminder of his affections.

She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, and he responded at once. One step, two, and then she felt her back make contact with the side of the house, out of view of the sitting room window - though the curtain was drawn, anyway. Still they kissed, hungrily, desperately, lips pressing, tongues sliding, and _oh, _but it was better than any of her memories. Maybe they were just more practiced at enticing one another now, or maybe they just knew one another better now than they ever had before, or maybe it was just that the love that had begun to blossom between them four years before had finally been granted the chance to grow, but whatever it was, Jen felt a need churning low in her belly that could not be denied. She _wanted_ him, and she wanted him _now. _

His left hand drifted down her back, caught her thigh, and she moved with him at once, leaned back against the house and hooked her leg around his hip, drew him in hard against her. With him pressed against the tender ache at the apex of her thighs she could feel his own desire making its presence known, and she moaned into his kiss, remembering how he'd felt moving deep inside her, wanting it again, forgetting every reason she'd ever given for keeping her distance from him. Nothing else seemed to matter, in that moment; Nick was holding her, kissing her, and all her worries seemed very far away.

With his left hand still locked tight around her thigh Nick shifted, slightly, ground himself against her center and dragged his right hand over the swell of her breast, over the softness of her belly. Every nerve in her body seemed to cry out at once, and she shivered at his touch; it shouldn't have been enough, just his kisses, just the press of his body against hers, to have her wet and aching for him, but Nick had always been so much more than she ever expected, and she was powerless to resist him.

"Jen," he breathed her name, panting against her lips, fingertips curling around the waistband of her jeans. There was a question in that word, a plea, really, and in the moment she could think of no reason to deny him.

"Yes," she answered, and before she could speak another word he was kissing her again, deft fingers unfastening the button of her jeans. Jen had never been the sort of girl to let things go too far on a first date - she was a copper, after all, and she knew all too well the dangers a woman faced when allowing herself to be vulnerable with someone new. But Nick wasn't new to her; he was familiar, and comforting, and he had never been anything but kind to her. Feeling him touch her now, kissing him now, felt like nothing so much as coming home, and she ached for him.

"_Christ, Jen," _he whispered as his hand slipped beneath her knickers, fingertips dragging through sparse curls, his tone wracked and wretched with longing. For her part Jen could not speak; he had dropped his head, let his lips brush against her neck as he touched her, and she was trembling from head to foot, clinging to him for dear life, her leg locked hard around his waist and holding him as close as she could.

Panting, eyes closed tight against the hope and the need that threatened to drown her, Jen could not help but gasp as at last his hand found her center, found her slippery and burning for him. He did not rush towards his goal, as some lovers she had known in the past; no, Nick took his time with her. He always had done. The faintest brush of his fingertips against her folds, tracing her shape, teasing her mercilessly, and then his thumb found her clit, and began to vibrate against it, the tempo of her gasps and stifled moans guiding him as he found his rhythm. And it was good, was so _good,_ his breath hot against her neck, his hand firm and insistent against her center. She gave herself over to it, to him, to the tension coiling inside her; she rocked her hips against him, and he turned his hand, let one thick finger slide into her while his palm ground against her, and stars began to sparkle behind her eyes.

He swore, softly, apparently as overcome by her response to him as she was overcome by his touch, and he pressed his lips more firmly to her neck while together they helped her chase her release. A second finger joined the first and he curled them inside her, and the sound he tore from her lips was so desperate she hardly recognized her own voice. Nick at least seemed to possess the presence of mind to remember where they were, and he covered her lips with his own, swallowed every sound she made as he drove her relentlessly towards her release.

And then, oh then, she shattered around him, her whole body clenching him close, everything between them hot and wet and full of love, the love they had not yet spoken aloud and yet which in that moment they both understood, intrinsically, without need of words. He held her, one hand on her thigh, one hand cradling her sex, rested his forehead against his own while she panted and trembled and rode the wave of her bliss until at last the world around her came into focus.

"_God, _Nick," she gasped, when at last she felt capable of speech. He was still impossibly hard, there between her legs, but before Jen could even contemplate offering to return the favor he was pulling away, letting her leg drop from around his hip to rest against the porch, pulling his hand out from between them and wrapping his damp fingers around her waist beneath her shirt.

"I didn't mean to get carried away," he told her, kissing her cheek gently.

"Don't you dare apologize for that," she fired back, though she smiled to let him know that she was not angry.

Still they stood, her arms around his neck, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, slowly coming back to themselves, and some of Jen's delight faded as she realized that she had to send him away.

"You know I want you to come inside," she told him.

"I know," he answered. "But I can't."

"Not yet," she said, stressing the word _yet_, wanting him to know that she hated it as much as he did, that she wanted him as much as he clearly wanted her, that she believed, truly, there was a chance for them, for their future. She knew there was, now. He had proven that to her.

"Soon," he told her. Once more he kissed her, and then he stepped away, and she let him. She could see the outline of his cock against his trousers, still, and knew that he must be suffering mightily for their continued proximity to one another. For the sake of his dignity and their delicate position she let him walk away, though she remained where she was, leaning back against the house with her jeans undone, her legs still unsteady, her whole body reeling. He did not linger, did not speak to her again, only walked resolutely to his car, and if he had been any one else it would have stung to see him leave her so quickly. But this was Nick, and Jen knew what he was doing, that he was in his own way protecting them both, allowing them both a chance to recover before they made a decision they couldn't take back, before they went too far.

_Christ, _but she loved that man.


	16. Chapter 16

_One week later…_

"They're cute together," Amy said, smiling as she reclined next to Jen on the green grass in the back garden, both of them sipping liberally from sweaty bottles of beer while Nick and Charlie tore about, kicking a soccer ball back and forth between them - or trying to, at any rate. Charlie was doing rather more falling down than kicking, but for all that he was laughing, happy, and Jen could not recall having ever been quite so content.

It was another bright sunny Saturday, and Nick had come back, just as he'd said he would, to play with their son, to smile at her softly, and she found the addition of his presence had done nothing but improve her life. There was a lightness in her heart, having him close to hand, seeing just how much he enjoyed spending time with their little family, all of them making memories together. It had been in her mind to worry when he left her the week before, standing on trembling legs on her front porch staring off after him, that things between them might change at work now that they had crossed this line in their personal life, but Nick had proven those doubts misguided. She had asked him once, and only once, to mind the way he spoke to her at the office, and he had taken that request to heart. Nothing untoward had passed between them, no innuendo, no awkwardness. Everything continued on in much the same fashion it always had, except that now when Nick smiled at her she felt a little bubble of warmth rising up in her chest.

He had not rung her, or pressed the issue beyond a single text sent to her on Monday evening. _Saturday? _It read. _Noon? _She'd answered, understanding at once what it was he was asking of her. _I'll be there, _he'd responded, and that was that. Those three messages were the only record of their changing relationship, at present, and they were vague enough not to cause her any worry. Old habits die hard, and the time she'd spent with SIS had taught Jen the importance of not leaving a paper trail. Oh, it wasn't likely that anyone would have cause to go snooping through her text messages any time soon, but still, she appreciated Nick's discretion.

And his devotion; for that was the only word she could think to describe the steady affection he poured on her, the resolute way he made his promises, and kept them. Nick wanted more from her, she knew, than what he had been given so far, but when he had arrived at her home at exactly noon he had done no more than kiss her on the cheek. He had not pushed, had not pressed, had not caught her by the hips and pulled her in close or crowded her in any way. Maybe he wanted to, maybe a part of her wished that he had, but he was, as always, the perfect gentleman, respectful of the boundaries she'd drawn for them, waiting for some signal from her that she was ready for things to advance between them.

One day, one day soon, she would be. His kiss, his touch had set her aflame, and she was hungry for more of him. And the gentle way he treated Charlie, his earnest enthusiasm, offered still more reassurance. This was _Nick, _running laughing through her back garden, tumbling to the grass with Charlie in his arms, Nick who had always been the one person she could count on, the one person who understood her, who was there for her, always.

"Yeah," she said in answer to her sister's declaration, "they do."

And they did. _My boys,_ Jen thought fondly as she watched them, with their dark hair and their dark eyes, their faces so very similar, though Charlie's was still a bit chubby. She wanted them to be her boys, wanted Nick to belong to her, wanted him in her life, by her side. She had asked for time and he had given it to her, but she was beginning to think that she'd waited long enough. It had been important to her, in the beginning, to take things slow for Charlie's sake, to not risk falling out with Nick and ripping Charlie's father away from him just as the boy became used to him. Now, though, she was beginning to think there was nothing in the world that would pull Nick away from Charlie, or from her.

Every one of Jen's previous relationships had ended for a variety of perfectly normal, predictable reasons. Her man resented the amount of time she spent at work, or she resented his lack of communication. The sex was bland, boring, not quite right. They just didn't have anything in common. In one memorable case, he'd murdered his wife. With Nick, though, none of that seemed to apply. He knew her already, inside and out, could list every last one of her bad habits and insecurities and yet remained fond of her. He understood the work, shared that burden in a way no one else she'd ever been with could ever have hoped to do. And as for the sex, well, she'd never describe a moment spent in Nick's arms as _boring. _He made her laugh, did not presume to judge her, loved their son with his whole heart. The only possible reason she could come up with to justify keeping her distance from him was work, and even that seemed a feeble excuse to her now. What was more important in the long run, she asked herself, homicide or her family? Nick had offered to request a transfer, but maybe it wouldn't come to that. Maybe they could ask for some sort of special dispensation, given the circumstances.

_Yeah, right,_ she thought grimly, an image of Bernice Waverly wearing a disapproving expression floating through her mind.

"So, have you shagged him yet?" Amy asked.

Jen promptly choked on her beer, and beside her Amy just laughed.

"You should see your face!" she crowed.

"Amy," Jen hissed, still sputtering just a little. "_Please."_

"All right, all right," Amy conceded, holding her hands up as if in defeat. Despite her words, however, she wasn't quite ready to let it go. "I'll take that as a no?"

"When have I even had the chance? You've been underfoot this whole time." Jen grumbled. _No, _she hadn't shagged Nick yet, not technically, but that didn't mean she hadn't been thinking about it, and she didn't entirely appreciate her sister poking around, no matter how well intentioned her questions might have been.

"Do you want me to go, Jen?"

Something had changed in Amy's tone; there was no bravado or teasing, only a note of something rather like worry, though clearly Amy was still trying to sound lighthearted.

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, the whole reason I moved in here in the first place was that Charlie's dad was gone. But he's here now. And he's actually pretty great. And you're clearly crazy about him. If you wanna play happy families with Nick I'm all for it, I'm just trying to plan ahead."

In truth Jen hadn't actually planned that far ahead herself. She had devoted rather a lot of time over the last week or so to wondering whether she might be able to invite herself round to Nick's for a night, and she had been wondering what she was going to do if things escalated to the point that their superiors at work would need to be notified. But she had not thought about Amy, about how hard it would be for her sister to be shunted aside in favor of Nick, had not thought about what things might look like if further down the road she and Nick set up house together. Now that the question had been raised, it troubled her a great deal.

"I'm not throwing you out," she said quietly. "You're my sister and I love you, and I could never repay you for everything you've done for us over the last few years. Whatever happens next with Nick, it doesn't change the fact that I am so lucky to have you in my life."

"Jenny-"

"And I don't know what's going to happen. But whatever it is, you'll have a say in it."

"Well," Amy shot her a sideways sort of grin, "in that case, for what it's worth, I think you should shag him."

Nick chose that exact moment to wander over to them, Charlie balanced on his shoulders. For a moment Jen's heart leapt into her throat, though whether that was fear that Nick had overheard her conversation with Amy or fear that Charlie might fall she could not say. Both fears were baseless, as it turned out; Nick was smiling warmly, and he had a firm grip on Charlie's chubby little legs.

"Someone says he's hungry, mummy," Nick told her seriously.

"Hungry!" Charlie agreed, at top volume.

"All right then," Jen answered, dragging herself to her feet. "Who wants pizza?"

* * *

It was later, much later, and Nick was doing the washing up. Not that there was so very much to do, just a few plates to rinse and dry and stack in the cabinet, but Jen was giving Charlie a bath and Amy was doing...whatever it was that Amy did, and his hands itched for want of occupation. He had to find some way to keep himself busy, or else the thoughts churning through his mind might well have driven him mad.

It had been another perfect day, as far as he was concerned. He had played with Charlie and Jen had laughed and Amy had been nothing but friendly, and the four of them had somehow fit together in a way that almost made his heart ache. For so long he had dreamt of exactly this, people to share his life with, a woman to share his heart with, a home, a family of sorts, something to add more meaning to his life than being a homicide detective ever could. A purpose, a reason for joy, a place to pour all the love he'd stored up deep within himself. That he could have found such a gift, here, with _Jen,_ Jen who he adored, beautiful, brilliant, capable Jen, made him feel like the luckiest man in the entire world.

But he did not have her, not entirely. The life he wanted was within his grasp, but he had not caught hold of it yet. Jen had been guarded, and understandably so, and he was still only a guest in this house, still only a visitor to this world he longed to inhabit. With time he hoped that might change, but for now he knew he must content himself with this. And he could, and he did; Jen was lovely, and every moment spent in her company served to dispel the cloud of lonely isolation that had fallen over him in the years since he'd last seen her. He felt as if this were the start of something, the start of something wonderful, and he tried to tell himself to be patient, to take each moment as it came.

"You've been summoned," a voice called out softly behind him, and he turned to find Amy leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching him with an amused expression on her face. "Charlie wants to say good night."

"All right, then," he answered, trying not to look too eager as he dried his hands and made his way back down the corridor. For a moment Amy followed him, but then she veered off into her own bedroom and closed the door, and he was left alone as he stepped inside his son's room.

That room was everything he'd expected; there were toys and picture books and framed photos of dinosaurs on the wall, and in a little bed tucked against the corner Charlie was already lying beneath a dark navy duvet, his hair still slightly damp from his bath, his mother perched on the bed beside him.

"All right," Jen said to him as Nick walked in. "Say good-night to Nick."

"Sing," Charlie said, somehow managing to be both sleepy and insistent, dark eyes wide and watching his mother closely.

"Say good-night to Nick, and then I will." Jen reached out and smoothed his hair back from his little face, and Nick found himself struck dumb by the sheer overwhelming love he felt for the two of them in that moment.

"Sing first," Charlie said.

_He's as stubborn as his mother, _Nick thought fondly.

Jen looked up at him helplessly, and Nick just shrugged, crossing the room to sit down beside her on the edge of the bed. Charlie smiled, apparently content with this arrangement, and closed his eyes.

For a moment Nick wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but then Jen reached out, and caught his hand in her own. She smiled at him softly, and then she began to sing. He didn't join her; he didn't recognize the song, and he wasn't entirely sure that she'd intended for him to, anyway. He just sat, spellbound, listening to the soft sound of her voice as she sang a quiet lullaby to send their child off into sleep. It had been years since the last time he'd heard her sing; he could still remember, quite clearly, his delight when he heard her one day in the shower, belting out some pop ballad while she washed her hair. She'd always been full of surprises, and this one touched something within his very soul.

The song was simple, and short, and when she finished she leaned over, and kissed Charlie's forehead once.

"Night night, bug," she whispered.

Charlie didn't answer, so Nick helped Jen to her feet, their fingers still laced together. They were halfway across the room when a little voice called, "Nick?"

His eyes were still closed, but his face was turned towards the door, his little eyebrows furrowed together in an expression so reminiscent of Jen that Nick nearly laughed out loud.

"Night night, mate," he said, and then Charlie settled, and his parents left him to his dreams, closing the door gently behind them.


	17. Chapter 17

_Christ, _everything had gone to hell.

It started like any other day. A normal day, a routine day, a day to spend by Jen's side, taking witness statements and typing up reports. There had been no indication when he woke that catastrophe was in the making, that everything he held dear might soon be taken from him. The sky had not been red, when he rolled out of bed and stared out through his window in the morning. There had been no unidentifiable feeling of doom sitting heavy in his gut. There had only been that overarching sense of normalcy, and the drive he felt each day to make his way to the office, to Jen.

They had laughed with Matt and Dunny over cups of tea at their desks, had sat in the interview room and then at their computers, had talked of nothing personal, though her gaze had been soft and kind when she watched him. It had seemed to him of late that she was warming to the idea of _them, _a future together, and he was glad of it. She smiled, and he took those smiles and stored them away in his heart, content that this day, like every day before it, was just another step on the journey that would bring their family together at last.

The call came late in the afternoon; Dunny had caught a break in his case, and needed some extra manpower to reel in a suspect. There was nothing new about that, nor anything particularly alarming; they were issued vests and guns, but it would be ten officers against one frightened man, and Nick liked their odds. Training and long years of experience had taught him to take such little excitements in stride, and besides, Jen was with him. There was nothing he could not do, so long as Jen was with him.

But then one man turned out to be five, and the odds were suddenly, significantly, less favorable. The scene had been chaos, a hail of bullets and the sound of Jen's voice sharp in his ear, the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out for one another. It was hardly the first time they'd faced such calamity, but this day would forever stand out in Nick's mind, for one moment they had four of the suspects subdued and Dunny was moving in on the fifth, and the next Jen cried out and staggered into him, bleeding.

The bullet had grazed her right arm, but Nick could spare a moment to feel relief. There was only horror as he wrapped his arms around her, as she went pale from the pain, as he pressed his palm hard against her wound in a bid to stop the bleeding. There was a roaring in his mind so loud he could not think, could hear nothing but his own dread. Jen, bleeding and limp in his arms; it did not matter that she had been lucky, that she would recover from this incident with no more than a scar to show what had happened. In that moment, the truth had come rushing in. On any day, any ordinary, unremarkable day, Jen could be taken from him. The danger was real, and lurking, impossible to prevent, impossible to circumvent, inevitable, almost. And he had not told her yet how he loved her, had not woken that morning with his arms wrapped around her, had missed so many bloody opportunities and _Christ; _what would become of Charlie, should anything ever happen to Jen?

And though rationally he knew it was not his fault, knew that there was nothing he could have done to prevent this calamity, knew that she was going to be all right, he could not help the wave of guilt that washed over him at the sight of her blood against his hand.

The ambos had come, and Jen had been patched up right there on the scene. They'd torn the ruined sleeve clean off her shirt to get to her wound, stitched her up and sent her on her way with Nick's police-issued jacket draped around her shoulders. He tried to tell her that she ought to go home, but she wouldn't hear of it; she'd climbed into the passenger's seat of his car with a look of grim determination on her face, and all but ordered him to take her back to work.

It might not have been the wisest course of action, but his nerves were already frayed, and so he did not protest, only drove toward the station in a stony silence, all but vibrating with the need to hold her.

* * *

Jen kept a spare change of clothes in her locker at work for moments such as this one, and she was grateful for that now. For one, her shirt was in tatters and sticky with dried blood, and she wanted to be well rid of it before she went home to face her son. For another, it gave her an excuse to steal a few minutes for herself, to stand alone in the locker room and take a deep breath and try to still the frantic racing of her heart.

It had been a close call. Too close. She'd tried to be brave, to keep her game face on, to smile and laugh so that the boys would not worry about her, so that no one would have any reason to question her resolve, but inside she was shrieking. She had known from the moment she first joined the police that there would be an element of risk to her work, but she had until now been fairly lucky. The only other serious injury she'd ever sustained had been while she was working with SIS. Dunny had taken his fair share of licks - she still felt the wash of sheer terror, every now and again, thinking about those terrible days when he had been comatose in hospital and they had all sat vigil round his bedside - but for the most part their team had been safe. That luck had reassured her, in the past; she'd made it this far, she told herself. Surely it wasn't worth worrying about.

But then, this. Her arm hurt, a deep, burning pain that made her eyes water, and she struggled to peel herself out of her shirt. The moment the bullet struck her thoughts had gone to Charlie; he was so little, and he needed her, and she was putting herself in the line of fire. Over the years she had managed to overcome the little voice that whispered to her, told her that this was no fit occupation for a single mother; she loved her job, and she loved feeling like the work she did mattered, and she hoped that one day Charlie would be proud of her. But she wanted to be there to watch her son grow, to see him finish school and start a life for himself, to get married and have babies. And _God_ but she wanted Nick, wanted to tell him how much she loved him, wanted to take him home and fall asleep nestled in his arms. Everything she wanted, everything she dreamed of had almost been taken from her forever, and the thought left her feeling queasy with guilt and doubt.

She did not have long to stew on those thoughts in solitude, however, for she had only just gotten free from her shirt when the door banged open behind her. Jen spun on her heel, and found herself face-to-face with Nick. His expression was grim as he locked the door behind him, but he did not approach her, only stood warily by the door, hardly blinking as he stared at her.

"I'm pretty sure it says _ladies _on the door, Buchanan," she told him, trying and failing to sound playful. The words came out harder than she'd intended, and she was kicking herself, for in truth the last thing she wanted in that moment was for him to leave her.

"Someone needed to check on you," he answered. "You want me to go back and send Allie down instead?"

"God, no."

He did not smile at her, but he did not remain where he was, either; in three long strides he had crossed the room, come to stand in front of her, so close they almost touched with every ragged breath she took. His sudden proximity made her feel as if the world had stopped turning, as if for this moment, this small eternity, no one existed save for him, and her, _them. _She was half-naked, her shirt discarded on the floor by her feet, wearing only her trousers and her bra, but she did not spare a moment to think about her bare skin and how Nick might react to it. Anyone else she would have sent fleeing from the room with a cloud of invective trailing after them, but this was _Nick. _Nick had seen it all before, a lifetime ago. They'd shared so much, and she was through with keeping secrets from him. There was no one she trusted so much as Nick, no one else she wanted with her when her nerves were so frayed, her spirit so weary.

With a trembling hand he reached out, trailed his fingertips along the edge of the bandage that covered her arm. His eyes were dark and full of pain as he looked at her, and she wanted, so badly, to reach out to him, to kiss him, to hold him close, wanted the comfort of his body warm and solid against her own.

"I'm all right," she told him in an unsteady voice.

"Like hell you are," he answered, but there was no heat to his words. He sighed and hung his head, sat on the low bench in front of her and then looked up at her with such an earnest sort of grief that she could not help but go to him.

It was not often that she was able to stand over him like this; Nick was a tall man, an imposing man, and she was used to lifting her chin to look into his eyes. Not so now; he was almost bowed before her, his shoulders slumped, his every emotion for once written on his face. There was something almost innocent about the way he looked at her, something boyish and desperate; there was no lust in him, only the need for comfort, for reassurance. As frightened as she had been by the events of the afternoon, it was plain to see that Nick had been shaken as well, and that tempered some of her own distress. He had come here because he cared for her, because he wanted to see her, and she had read the truth of his heart in those actions. That was Nick's way; he was not a man who wasted time with words. His love was always shown in deeds.

He reached for her then, broad hands curving around her hips, and she let him pull her into him. She stood between his knees, let her hands sift through his soft, dark hair while he pressed his forehead against the bare skin of her stomach. There was a benediction in the way they touched one another, as if they had come together seeking absolution for their sins, and found it together. Over and over again she ran her fingers through his hair, knowing how that gesture had soothed him in the past, and he sat still and reverent, holding her, his breath warm against her belly.

"It'll be all right," she told him after a while, knowing that however much they might wish they could stay like that forever the time was fast approaching when they would have to leave the peaceful bubble they'd constructed for themselves.

At the sound of her voice he lifted his chin, once more staring up at her.

"I don't ever want to see your blood on my hands again," he told her in a ragged voice.

She almost threw herself into his arms right then; the prospect of her being wounded had clearly shaken him, and she understood it very well, for she felt as if the foundations of her own life were crumbling beneath her. For so long she had kept him at arm's length, had tried to be circumspect, but what was the point of such prudence, she asked if herself, if one day she could be less lucky, if she were struck down before she'd ever had the chance to hold him again? He had been everything to her once, the sure and steady center of her very world, and whether she admitted it or not she knew that he had taken up that role once again. This quiet, gentle man meant everything to her, and she _loved_ him.

"It'll be all right," she told him again. And then she bowed her head, and kissed his temple, still cradling his head between her palms.

* * *

It was later, much later, and the worries of the day had receded into shadow. Reports had been filed and she had been rostered off work for a whole, glorious week. She had dodged Amy's questions about the sling that bound her arm, had given her son a bath and sung him to sleep, and she was, finally, curled up in her own bed. But she was alone, and no matter how she tried to comfort herself the truth remained that she did not want to _be _alone. She did not want to lie there, cold and lonely in a bed with room enough for two. She did not want the silence, and the accompanying memory of the clamor of gunshots, of Nick's voice crying out her name as she crumpled into him. She did not want the bite of fear or the rising chorus of her own doubts. She wanted _Nick._

And then, as if she had by the sheer power of her own thoughts summoned her own salvation, her mobile lit up as a text message came through.

_Are you awake? _

It was Nick, reaching out to her in the same way he had done the night he learned the truth about Charlie, and her fingers were shaking as she typed her answer.

_Yes._

A single moment passed, and then his reply came through.

_I'm outside, _he'd written. _You don't have to let me in. I can leave. But I'm here. _

She was out of bed in a second, trying to answer him even as she shrugged into her robe.

_Don't ring the bell, _she told him. _I'll open the door for you. _


	18. Chapter 18

Jen's hands were trembling as she opened the door, but some of her nerves quieted when she found herself face-to-face with Nick. He was leaning there in the doorway, not stepping inside until he'd been invited, but the way he looked at her was heavy, intense, his eyes drinking in the sight of her hungrily, and the little seed of hope that had begun to blossom within her chest burst into bloom as she returned that steady gaze. Earlier in the day they had brushed right up against _something, _had come close, so close, too close to crossing the line she'd drawn between them, the line they had until now refused to cross - with the exception of that one beautiful night, standing there on that same porch, when madness or love or some combination of the two had overwhelmed them both utterly. There could be no doubt that their days of prudence and restraint were behind them; he had come to her, in the small hours of the night, with desperation in his eyes, and she had opened the door to him, knowing full what it was he wanted of her, wanting the same thing so much that she ached with longing. Things might look different in the morning, but whatever happened she knew that she would never, could never regret opening her door to Nick tonight.

She held the door a little wider, stepping aside in a silent invitation that Nick accepted at once. It was very late and she was hesitant to speak; for one thing, the house was rather small, and her son and her sister were both sleeping peacefully not very far from the spot where she now stood. For another, there was a hopeful, eager, almost dreamlike quality to the air between them, the tension that coiled itself so exquisitely around her spine, and she was loath to break it. If this was a dream, she did not want to wake until she'd had her fill of him, until the yearning within her heart had been sated, however briefly.

So without words she closed the door behind him, and reached for his hand. Their fingers twined together at once, palms pressed flat together, his hand broad and strong and warm; she loved that hand, loved everything about him, and when he smiled at her, softly, gratefully in the darkness, she found she no longer remembered why it had seemed so important to keep her distance from him. Clinging to his hand as if it - as if _he - _were the most precious thing in the world she turned and led him silently through the sitting room, down the short corridor and into her bedroom, and not until that door, too, had closed behind them did she let out the breath she'd been holding. She had worried, very briefly, that he might protest, that he might insist he had come only to talk, but it seemed that Nick felt rather as she did, that this was not a moment for words.

Then again, perhaps not, for as she stood there, looking up at him, holding his hand, studying every line on his dear, sweet face and wondering what might happen next, he surprised her. With an urgency she had not expected he pulled his hand away, but he soothed her every doubt when he caught her face in his hands, gently, palms warm and soft against her cheeks, his expression ravaged by want, and perhaps, just a little, by pain.

"I can't lose you, Jen," he whispered. For the sake of their privacy he had kept his voice low, had not needed her to remind him how important it was that they not be discovered, but his tone was still full of heat, the events of the day having made him bold. Somehow she felt as if he were not saying only that he could not bear it if she died out on the job one day; somehow, she felt as if he were speaking to some deeper, more vital need, as if he could not bear to go another day without her in any capacity, as if he could not picture a world in which he was not allowed to hold her. And Jen could understand that, for she felt much the same way about him. That brush with violence had brought her a certain clarity, and she knew now what she wanted, what mattered most to her. It was Nick; it had always been Nick.

"You've got me," she told him breathlessly. "I'm right here."

It seemed that was reassurance enough for Nick; his eyes darted over her face, quickly, intensely, as if he were looking for some sign of doubt, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her features, and then he stepped up close to her, and bowed his head. Jen met him at once, rising up on her toes, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck as their lips crashed together. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her hard against him, the door at his back anchoring them both as they gave themselves entirely to one another. Lips pressed, soft and sweet, tongues tangled, wet and hungry, and Jen sucked his bottom lip between her teeth just to hear the low groan that rumbled from the back of his throat, just to feel the way his grip tightened on her, drew her hips against his own. She could feel every inch of him against every inch of herself, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, the buckle of his belt pressing into her belly, her robe soft against his wrinkled suit. With one hand still she cradled the back of his neck, let her fingers sift through the soft hair there, while she fisted the other in the back of his shirt, clinging to him fiercely while the fervor of his kisses swept her away. She almost didn't notice when he reached between them, intent on the little belt that kept her robe closed; almost, but then he gave a gentle tug and it came free, and his hands sought out her skin at once.

He wanted her, and she wanted him, and so she did not stop him; those hands, strong and capable enough to accomplish any task, roughened and worn by years of hard work outside the job, glided over her belly, crested the swell of her breasts - though he did not linger there, much as she might have wished - and then over her shoulders, catching her robe and taking it with him. She lowered her arms and let the robe slide free so that she was standing before him utterly bare and vulnerable, and yet not even remotely anxious.

* * *

Perhaps it had been a bit hasty, to disrobe her without any further discussion on the subject, but Jen had not tried to stop him, and Nick was profoundly grateful for the chance to see her, to touch her like this once again. The soft robe swirled down her legs, gathering in a pool on the floor, and at once his hands sought out skin, tracing across her belly, rising up so that the soft buds of her nipples caught against his palms, and all the while she watched him, utterly naked and shining like the sun.

"Hardly seems fair," she murmured, blushing as his gaze burned over her, her fingertips rising to attack his shirt buttons even as she ducked her head, hiding her face from view. For a moment Nick tried to catch his breath, splayed his hands across her back, felt the heat of her skin, the softness of it, felt her body trembling beneath his touch, fragile as a bird, tense as if she were about to take flight. She didn't though; Jen, his beautiful, perfect Jen, stayed right there with him, unbuttoning his shirt with her bottom lip caught between her teeth, applying all of her usual focus to her task with a dedication that Nick found unbelievably erotic. His hands traced down her back, watching in fascination as she curved in response, her breasts thrust forward and her breaths coming in pants while her fingers fumbled with his buttons, momentarily distracted, and he grinned, wondering if he was the reason for that distraction.

It was a wondrous thing, to be touching her, watching her, mesmerized by her naked beauty in the dim light of the street lamps filtering in the through the curtains. For years he had been missing her, memories fading the longer he spent away from her, and now that he had found his way back to her he could not take his eyes from her. This moment, this pleasure, this love he felt now had almost been ripped away from him, and his heart ached at the very thought. How could he go on, without her smiles, without her laugh, without her kiss? He reached out, dragged his fingertips against the edge of the bandage that covered her arm, but though she must have felt his touch, must have known what it meant, she did not stop.

"Jen," he whispered her name, a prayer in the darkness, and in his arms she smiled, half in recognition and half in triumph as she finished mucking about with his buttons.

"I'm here, Nick," she answered, her voice as quiet as his own had been. Her hands fell to his belt even as her lips descended upon his collarbone, and Nick struggled to contain his a groan of desire at the touch of her lips, drawing her closer to him still with two hands clenched hard to the soft swell of her ass. He rocked her against him, his hardness pressed fast to the smoothness of her belly through his trousers, and he felt her answering moan vibrating against his skin as she kissed him.

She _was_ here, and though it was in his mind to wonder if perhaps this was too much too fast, all conscious thought left him as she worked his belt free. Though reason might have suggested that it was foolish in the extreme, to take her to bed when they had not discussed the future, when everything between them was still so tentative and undecided, when they were risking their careers for the sake of what promised to be an earth-shattering shag, he knew that what they shared, what they were, was so far beyond the scope of a normal relationship that those parameters had long since ceased to apply. For four long years he had been waiting for her, longing for her, and their arrival in her bedroom had come not a moment too soon.

His belt hit the floor with a clatter, and when she slipped his trousers down off his hips he took a moment to toe out of his shoes and socks before kicking the lot of it to the side, standing before her in just his trunks, her naked and him mostly so, both of them breathing like a bellows. But then his hands were on her again, unable to stay away from the glorious, rapturous heat of her, drawing her to him for another fierce, blinding kiss as his hands once more gravitated to her skin, and before Jen could so much as take a step his mouth was on her, tracing the soft swell of her breast to both of their delight.

She tasted like honey, like coming home, and he could not get enough of her. In his arms she was weightless, arching into his touch, her fingers scraping gently through his hair while beneath his lips her flesh erupted in goosebumps, her nipple pebbling at the touch of his questing tongue. He sucked it between his lips, flicked it with the tip of his tongue, ground forward against her as every sound she made only made him want her more. As he increased his ministrations, sinking his teeth into the curve of her breast, she moaned his name, and the sound of it struck him hard and fast as lightning. Before he could turn his attentions to the other side, however, she stopped him, his Jen, his beautiful love, the other half of his soul.

Her hands pressed flat against his chest, pushing him back a step, and he followed her wordless instruction at once, fear and yearning churning deep in his gut. There was no need for him to worry; just as he opened his mouth to ask her why she'd pushed him away she smiled at him softly, and then with all the grace of a dancer she sank to her knees before him. And for his part Nick could do nothing but stare at her in wonder, as she ran her hands over the outside of his legs, her fingers threading the coarse hair she found there until at last she reached the waistband of his trunks. He was hard and aching for her, and the sight of her before him, her wide, brilliant eyes, her full red lips swollen from his kisses, the mark of his teeth upon her breast, drove him nearly mad with want of her. Those slender fingers divested him of his trunks, freeing his straining cock, and though he had some idea what she had in mind he still found himself shocked into near insensibility when she reached out and wrapped her hand around his length. This was not something he had counted on, not something he ever would have asked from her on this night when they had been so long apart from one another, but he wanted it so very badly he felt he might spontaneously combust should she deny him the touch of her hand.

Gently, teasingly she explored him, his heart pounding so ferociously he was concerned for a moment that he may very well die from want of her. Her fingertips feathered down one side of his shaft and up the other before she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him gently in time to a rhythm all her own. He could not stop himself; he groaned and tangled his hands in her soft hair, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from thrusting into her touch. He whispered her name, trying to be mindful of the need for quiet, his voice hoarse and alien sounding to his own ears, but she just smiled up at him from her perch upon the ground.

And then Jen drew him towards her, her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft as her lips descended upon him. It took everything he had to keep from groaning, from calling her name as she slowly took him into her mouth and back out again, spreading the wetness she found, the heat and the friction and the glory of her burning him alive. The sight of his cock disappearing between her lips, the feel of her tongue swirling around the head of his cock left him breathless and wild, and without any conscious thought he thrust gently against her, watched her take him that much deeper, felt the rush of his release roaring towards him. He had to stop her, he could not stop her, he wanted her, he loved her, he needed her; everything was Jen and heat and a haze of lust in that moment. Those slender fingers wrapped around him, squeezed him tighter, pulled him deeper, and at the last possible moment he wrenched himself away from her, closed his eyes for fear that the sight of her wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand might well be all it took to push him over the edge.

* * *

Jen was quite proud of herself; she had decided, the moment she divested Nick of his shirt, that before they lost themselves too completely she would taste him, would show him with lips and hands how she loved him, how she needed him, how she wanted nothing in the world so much as him. It was not her favorite act, but the sight of her stoic Nick with his eyes gone almost feral and his solid chest heaving with each of his gasping breaths, boneless and reduced to muffled groans of dire need from her ministrations had left her wet and hungry for him. As she caressed him she had very nearly reached down to touch herself, so moved was she by his response to her, but he had stopped her before she had the chance to. It was clear he was struggling to pull himself under control, no doubt wanting to save his release until they were sweaty and tangled up in her bed together, and Jen was grateful to him for showing the restraint she herself was so sorely lacking. Something deep inside her had shifted, the moment she allowed herself to admit that there was nothing stopping her loving this man, and now that she had faced herself, faced him, admitted the truth of her heart, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than him.

In deference to Nick's obvious need for control she did not push him; she rose to her feet and stepped away, crossing the room to stretch herself out upon the bed, watching and waiting and eager for him. As she waited for her lover to regain control of his faculties she took a moment to relax, to let the softness of her bed beneath her drain away the tension in her shoulders; absent-mindedly she rubbed her legs together, feeling the pull of arousal deep in her stomach as she watched Nick's eyes open slowly, burning like embers in the darkness as he began to prowl towards her, his cock hard and heavy and straining for her, bobbing with every step he took.

It happened as if in slow motion; Nick reached the edge of the bed and covered her body with his own, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head as his lips descended on hers and his weight settled over her, pressing down against her. On instinct her legs rose up around his hips, cradling him there between her thighs. The tip of his hardness brushed against her damp folds and she could not stop the little whimper that escaped her at the sensation. Nick's lips devoured hers even as his left hand kneaded the tender flesh of her breast, even as his right hand descended the plane of her stomach, heading for the ache between her thighs only he could sate. It was almost more than she could bear; every inch of her body was alight, covered by Nick in some way, her senses overwhelmed by him, by his heat, his scent, his touch. His panting breaths ghosted across her cheek as his fingers tangled themselves in the sparse curls between her legs and she thrust up against him, reduced to only this burning desire for him. Nick shifted his weight above her, freeing her lips so that she could gasp aloud as he touched her.

"_Please,_" she whispered as he continued his exploration of her, groaning softly as his fingers slipped through her wetness, spreading her desire for him. With eyes dark and hungry he watched her, re-learning her responses, guiding her through as those fingers thrust within her, curling against her until she was writhing, incoherent and blissful and electrified by the sensation. She knew what he wanted, knew he wanted to make her come apart before he'd ever slid inside her, could feel his determination in the fevered thrusting of his hand against her tender sex, but she needed _more._

Blindly she reached out for him, caught his cock in her hand and stroked him, trying to tell him without words that she was ready, that the time had come for them to step from the precipice together. This man, this quiet, beautiful man meant everything to her, and she did not want to waste another moment pretending that she did not need him, did not love him with everything she had. They were making themselves anew tonight, delighting in their own private celebration of a future they had both of them been dreaming of for so long now. The road that lay before them was cloaked in shadow, but this dance they could navigate together, and Jen was determined that they should enjoy whatever moment of peace and delirium they could claim for themselves before life beyond those four walls reasserted itself and they were left uncertain once again.

Jen had no need of words to communicate to Nick what she wanted from him; they had known one another far too long, and he had already demonstrated such understanding of her body as to leave her breathless and whimpering for him. His thumb rubbed circles around her clit even as he readjusted himself above her, preparing them both for what was to come. The touch of his hand, the fire of his kiss, the brush of his cock against her bare thigh; all of it together was almost more than she could stand, beautiful and torturous all at once. She wanted everything, all he had to give, and she wanted it now, before either of them had a chance to stop and think about the ramifications.

With all the tender restraint she had come to expect from him over the years Nick eased himself inside her, replacing his fingers with the head of his cock, stretching her deliciously, and it took everything she had to contain the cry of sheer radiant delight that threatened to fall from her lips unbidden. Her body trembled, quite beyond her own control; she took one ragged breath, and as she released it Nick thrust that much deeper within her, her breasts pressed hard to his chest and her head thrown back on the pillow as she canted her hips to meet him.

Bliss and heat and the faintest hint of pain; he was strong and hard and _real_, plunging inside her again and again, harder, and faster, watching the fluttering of her eyelashes and listening to her panting breaths, using her response as a guide. It came as natural as breathing, this rapturous abandon, the old familiar rhythm coming back to them as they gave themselves over to the moment. Jen could not recall a time in her life when she had ever wanted anyone so badly as she wanted Nick, when the touch of any man had been enough to make her weep from sheer desperation, and yet she felt it now, from the tips of her toes to her trembling hands; she wanted to consume him and be consumed by him, and with each powerful thrust of his hips Nick forced her closer to the brink. She wrapped her legs tight around his waist and dragged him to her with her heels against the small of his back, clenching him deep inside her and drawing a loan groan from each of them at once. Nick rolled into her, again and again, a vast wave breaking upon her shore, and she could do nothing but hold him, cling to him, give him shelter within her body.

The sounds of their union echoed loud and frantic throughout the stillness of her bedroom, slaps and smacks and moans and desperate kisses as he pressed her closer and closer to the edge. Though she had wondered, more than once, what it might be like if they ever found their way back together she had never imagined this, had never imagined that the touch of his hand would cause her to lose all control. She was entirely at his mercy and she could not spare a moment to be afraid, not when he drove into her again, and again, pressing her back against the pillows as his body smothered every thought in her head save for him. He was bigger, harder, _more_ than even she remembered, and she was delirious with want of him.

Dimly she heard herself begin to cry out as at last release washed over her, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his cock, and though he covered her lips with his own to muffle the sounds she made he did not stop, his thrusts frenzied now and forcing her into an oblivion the likes of which she had never known before. It was as if, once started, she could not stop, as her pleasure tore through her again and again, left her feeling as if she needed to scream, to cry, to laugh all at once. Beneath her hands Nick's body was slick with sweat, and she drew him to her, his head pillowed on her breast as at last he allowed himself to let go and followed her over the edge, spilling himself inside her with a muffled groan of bone-deep satisfaction that she swallowed with her own eager lips.

* * *

Something tugged faintly at the back of Nick's mind, but his thoughts would not resolve themselves. He was wrapped around Jen, her left leg still curled around his hip, his cheek against her collarbone, her hands sifting through his hair, and his very soul felt so light that he could not bring himself to examine his troubles to closely.

Jen, though, Jen knew what he was feeling better than he did himself.

"Stay," she whispered, and then he remembered. Charlie was sleeping just down the hall, and they were neither of them prepared for their son to find Nick in Jen's bed come morning. But she was soft, and warm, and touching him so gently, and the last thing Nick wanted was to leave her. "Just for a little while," she told him, almost - but not quite - begging him, and he turned his head slightly, pressed his lips against her skin as if to tell her without words that she had no need to beg him; he would not willingly part from her. "Stay," she said again.

And so he did.


	19. Chapter 19

A soft, warm hand against Nick's back woke him early the next morning; he opened his eyes blearily, giving his head a little shake as he tried to orient himself in place and time. He had not meant to fall asleep in Jen's bed; he had only meant to stay for an hour or two, to talk to her softly, to tell her how he loved her and promise to return for breakfast the next day. But adrenaline and love and Jen had left him exhausted, and when he lifted his wrist to check his watch he saw it was nearly six am. It was early, but he had time enough, he supposed, to kiss her, to make his way home to shower and change and then return. _We could make pancakes, _he thought, smiling as he remembered how Charlie enjoyed them. Jen was sleeping peacefully under his arm, his face buried in her hair -

All at once it hit him, that the hand on his back could not possibly belong to Jen, Jen who lying on her stomach, naked and soft beneath him. And that hand was too small to be Amy's; he realized what must have happened, and felt his heart sink in his chest. Gingerly he rolled over, careful not to jostle Jen too much, careful not to let the sheet slip any further down his body than it had already done, for beneath it he was as naked as Jen. And then he settled on his side, and found himself staring into the curious eyes of his son. At some point during the night Charlie must have stripped out of his pajamas; Jen had told Nick that their boy was going through a phase, that he did his best to avoid wearing clothes at all times. He wore only his little trunks, and trailed a soft blue blanket behind him like a cape.

"Hey, mate," he said in a hoarse whisper. Charlie frowned at him, clearly confused at having discovered Nick in Jen's bed so early in the morning. He couldn't have possibly understood what it meant - or at least, Nick hoped he didn't; _how much do three year olds know about grown ups, anyway? _he wondered - but it must have seemed very strange to him, still, to come into his mother's room expecting to find her alone and finding Nick instead. _Christ, _Nick had no idea how to even begin going about explaining this to him, but then he supposed that such explanations weren't really his purview, anyway; Jen was the one who had spent the last few years raising their son all by herself, and Nick would defer to her judgment when it came to deciding what and how much to tell Charlie about their...situation.

"Are you hungry?"

It was still very early, and it had been quite late when he and Jen finally fell asleep the night before. She would be sore and tired when she woke, and he did not want the first emotion she felt upon waking to be guilt or fear or doubt. He wanted to let her rest, and he felt that the best way to do that would be to find some other occupation for himself and Charlie. Food seemed as good as place as any to start; Nick didn't know very much about kids, but he knew they had to eat.

At his question Charlie nodded eagerly, and Nick could not help but smile, reaching out to ruffle his son's dark hair, so like his own.

"Go and turn the telly on," he told the boy. "I'll be there in a minute and I'll make brekkie, ok?"

Telly and breakfast; those were two of Charlie's favorite things - in truth, he had many favorite things, that wonderful little boy so full of love for the world around him - and he needed no further prodding. He turned and waddled out of the room as fast as his little legs could carry him, and Nick inwardly breathed a sigh of relief the moment he was gone. It was a near thing; Charlie could have walked in on them under much worse circumstances, and he supposed he ought to have been grateful for small mercies.

Quickly, quietly he slid out of bed and into his trunks; he didn't want to leave Charlie waiting and he couldn't seem to find his trousers, and so he simply gave up the search. _If it's good enough for Charlie, it's good enough for me,_ he thought. He paused by the side of the bed, watching Jen sleep, beautiful and peaceful, and felt his heart swell in his chest. Jen was everything he'd ever wanted, and to have her now, to know that she cared about him enough - _loved _him enough, perhaps, even if they hadn't said the words - to hold him close the night before gave him nothing but hope. The morning was young, neither of them would be expected at work, Jen was sleeping, and Charlie was waiting for him in the sitting room; he wanted for nothing, in that moment. Carefully he leaned over her, and brushed his lips against her forehead.

"I love you," he whispered. She gave no indication that she had heard him, but then that wasn't the point. He had spoken the words because he must, because he could not contain them another second longer. Satisfied that she was still asleep he turned and left the room, closing the door silently behind him. Charlie was hungry, and Nick had breakfast to make.

* * *

When Jen woke she was alone, and though she understood full well why he had left her she could not help but feel a pang of disappointment. It would have been nice, she thought, to wake up next to Nick. Maybe it was something they could discuss, later in the day; they would need to make some kind of plan, need to come to an agreement about how much they could tell Charlie about their circumstances, but it was something she wanted, very much. She stretched, catlike and content, feeling the echoes of Nick's hands along every inch of her skin, but then the pain lanced through her wounded arm and she hissed, drawing it in close against her chest. The graze from the bullet burned something fierce and her tongue felt like sandpaper in her mouth. She needed water and painkillers, and soon.

Grumbling just a little she rolled out of bed; it was almost 6:30 in the morning, and while Charlie had not come to her demanding breakfast she knew that he would soon. Amy was not an early riser, but Charlie was always up with the sun, and Jen dearly wanted a few minutes alone to gather herself before he came tearing out of his room in search of food and his mother.

As she steadied herself on her feet she realized they'd kicked the duvet off the bed sometime during the night; she didn't remember much of what had happened after she'd asked Nick to stay, but she could recall the warmth of him wrapped around her, and she smiled at the thought. She picked up the duvet and tossed it over the crumpled bedsheet they'd slept under, and then she paused, for hidden beneath the duvet were Nick's clothes, his shirt and shoes and trousers.

He was still here, then, and she found herself quite pleased at the prospect. She supposed that Nick might have gone to the loo, that his rising might have been what woke her. If she could not wake up next to him, she supposed that bumping into him in the corridor and sharing a thorough snog against the wall before he left held some appeal. Yes, she liked that idea very much. And maybe if they were quick enough, if Charlie slept long enough, they could pretend that Nick had only just come over that morning to check on her; maybe he didn't need to leave at all. She liked that idea even better.

As quickly as she could given the limitations of her arm Jen dressed and hurried from her room, but she was brought up short once more by the sound of voices drifting from the sitting room. The telly was on, playing one of those infernal children's cartoons about talking trains, but even still she could make out the low, soft sound of Nick's voice. Nick would hardly have turned the telly on for his own amusement; _shit, _she thought glumly, scrubbing her hands over her face. Though she had not seen them she knew that Charlie must be with him, and it was too late now to concoct some excuse; if the pile of clothes on her bedroom floor was anything to go by, Nick had left her bedroom wearing only his trunks. It would seem that all her plans had been laid to ruin.

As tempting as it was to simply go back to bed and ignore the potential disaster lurking in her sitting room Jen knew that she couldn't; she would have to face them sooner or later, and she knew that sooner was best. And so she squared her shoulders, and marched off to meet her doom.

And yet the sight that greeted her when she reached the end of the corridor was not one of chaos or distress. It was instead quite the sweetest thing she'd ever seen, and she leaned against the wall for a moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she watched them, those two boys she loved so well.

Nick and Charlie were sitting side-by-side on the floor, their backs against the sofa, both of them shirtless and wearing only their trunks, both of them holding bowls of cereal in their hands. They were so alike, the pair of them, dark hair still mussed from sleep and sticking up at odd angles, their serious eyes watching the telly, though Nick's gaze drifted to their son now and again, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth while he watched the boy. Charlie's little face was still round and sweet, and Nick was so _tall, _broad and strong, his back and arms and shoulders and solid with muscle, but still, anyone seeing the pair of them together would know at once that they were cut from the same cloth. Something in the show made Charlie laugh, and that smile bloomed across Nick's face in earnest.

It was the sort of scene Jen had dreamed of watching more times than she could count. Nick, strong and brave and handsome and gentle, always so gentle, comfortable with their son, looking after him, smiling at him. Jen was quite certain she had never known a better man than Nick, and she counted herself lucky indeed, that she should love him so deeply, that he should love her just as much.

As if he'd sensed her presence hovering over them Nick looked up, and when his eyes fell on her face the full force of his warm smile washed over, and Jen could not help but return it. She certainly would never have planned for this, for whatever circumstances had led them to this point, but she could not regret a single moment of it. She had Nick, and she had Charlie; she could not ask for more.

"Mummy's here," Nick said softly, and then Charlie turned to smile at her, too.

"Cereal!" he said, lifting up the bowl to show her. "Nick made it!"

One day, perhaps one day very soon, Jen wanted to hear him call Nick _dad_ instead, but she could happily settle for this. It was enough, for now, that Charlie was comfortable and happy with his father; it was a dream she had thought beyond her grasp only a bare few months before. Everything had changed, but she was beginning to believe that it had all changed for the better.

"All right?" Nick asked her. He looked so natural, so _right_ sitting there on the floor, and Jen could not stop herself from going to him, could not bear to spend another minute removed from her family. She stepped right up close to him, and then carefully bent, and pressed a kiss against the top of his head.

"I just wanted to see what my boys are up to," she told him, smoothing her hand over his hair.

"You should sit," he told her, his hand wrapping around the back of her calf, the only part of her he could reach. It would seem that Nick, too, did not want to spend another moment not touching her, as if his heart, like hers, rejoiced in the quiet domesticity of this moment. "I can make you something to eat."

She just shook her head, smiling. "You stay where you are," she said. "I'll make some tea and then I'll come join you."

And so she did.

* * *

**A/N: This is the end of this little story, but there is a sequel in the works! It should make an appearance next week. Stay tuned! **


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